Dave

"Kiss him," someone says, and I do because he looks at me with a bright smile and expectation in his eyes.
It's wet and sloppy and nothing but a formality, really. We kiss because it fits the mood of the room, because we can, because we're both drunk enough for it not to mean anything.
Sometimes I go to his house. We watch movies, sip our drinks, make more. We complain, talk about dreams, raise our voices louder and louder against the buzzing whir that tipsiness sings in our heads. I don't usually remember falling asleep, but I remember his hand on my knee, the redness of his cheeks.
It was never anything but a formality.