I watched the small grey-brown hairs that ran across his neck as I sat there behind him. They always looked so delicate, but so complicated, like a system of veins winding their way to his thick brown hair.  The room was quiet, as was customary in Quaker worship. He had shuffled his way to the bench in front of me, his jeans rolled up on his long sun-kissed legs so that they hems were showing. He placed his brown sandaled feet on the edge of the bench in front of him.
He had just gotten a haircut. I hated when he got them. He had the most beautiful hair. To the casual onlooker he may just look like a classic brunette, but I saw more than that. I saw the two tones one just a grade darker than the other, presumably from all his time in the sun playing soccer. The different shades melded in front of his face in little spruces that went every which way. He never combed it, and that let his natural volume expand. Our freshman year at boarding school some had called him the “king of bed head” for his supercharged hair upon first waking up.  The few chances I got I would run my hand through it and I loved how soft it was.
The meeting house was a dull shade of white, closer to cream than anything else. This was purposeful, it was supposed to be less distracting than anything else, more pure. The point of the silence was to let oneself think, to dig into your subconscious and take a closer look at who you are, and what you believe. The meeting house is a relatively large room filled with wide wooden benches. The benches are located along the four, rectangular walls of the room. Behind each set of benches is are two 12 pained window panels that let the mid-autumn light it in.
   He was wearing a sky blue hooded jacket and the hood was laid out behind him, the seam running in perfect symmetry with his backbone. There was a tethered layer of grey lint hanging off the rim of the hood and it took all my will not to reach out, to brush it off, to feel his body heat radiate from his muscular back to my thin fingertips. I could imagine his face as he would turn around, and stare at me, a perplexed look on his face. I would hold up the ball in a silent explanation, and he would turn around again, go back to forgetting I existed.
I played with one of the buttons on red cushion that was under me, and looked up at the array of white ceiling tiles that loomed over us. The wind was blowing outside and I could hear the whoosh as the tiny branches were blown around helplessly. The wind was oddly calming and I placed my hands, open palmed in my lap.
“324.” He said as he made his way closer to where I sat journaling under a large oak tree.
“What?” I asked confusedly, his long brown hair was blowing every which way in the wind. It had been its longest then, when I had first met him for years ago. It was parted in the middle, just so it would cover one of his brilliant blue eyes. He smiled, realizing in his excitement, he had neglected to tell me what the h*ll he was talking about.
“In the meeting house, there are 324 tiles on the ceiling,” he said, in an evident tone of pride.
I couldn’t imagine that he could have looked past the dancing shadows of the trees on the oak flooring, or the beauty of the drizzle tapping on the window to count the tiles on the ceiling. I had never thought to do this before. Many pieces were fractured and the room was cut in half by a long set of sliding wooden doors which cut certain pieces in half, some in thirds.
“Really? I’m going to have to check your math on that the next time I’m in there.” I said jokingly.
“You’ll probably get a different number,” he said sitting down next to me.
“What are you writing?” He asked, pointing to the red spiral bound notebook in my hands.
My hands tensed on the notebook as I looked to it and then back at him. I had been writing a story about us. Fragments and details about the monotony of where we lived, and how my passion for him, was making it easier to stand.
“A story,” I replied simply.
“That’s awesome; you should send it to me sometime. I bet you’re a good writer” He replied.
“Thanks, I’ll do that sometime.” I said watching as the leaves cascaded around us, a storm of bright reds crisp oranges and vibrant yellows. I had other stories I could send him, my favorite of which was entitled “The Blind Date.” I made a mental note to send it to him when we got up.
I awoke from my daydream when I heard a fit of coughing coming from in front of me. His body heaved as he coughed and it went on for about ten seconds before I saw my opportunity. I took my flat outstretched palm and patted him firmly on the back until the coughing subsided. As I retraced my hand, I grabbed the piece of lint firmly, and it came off cleanly in my hand. 
He turned and gave me an appreciative glance. I nodded my head slightly. His eyes looked misted over and gave off an air of exhaustion. I put my hand together and then up to the side of my head as if to illustrate a pillow. It took him a second but he finally got my meaning and shook his head. He then turned forward again and rested his head on the back rest of the bench. I couldn’t imagine that would be comfortable. I took the toe of my shoe and tapped it into his side. He turned back to me looking slightly annoyed.
I took off my sea-foam green scarf and pointed from it to the place where his head had been resting. He nodded again and I handed it to him. When he leaned in to grab it I could smell his cologne. It was a mixture of something not quite describable, but it left the faint trace of brown sugar in the air. I smiled to myself as I breathed it in. He laid the balled up scarf behind him on the edge of the bench and then rested his head on top of it. I looked up at the ceiling and resumed my counting.
“I got 360.” I said, catching up to him as he disembarked the meeting house. We walked down the cement path leading to the school’s main building.
“Aw, well you’re probably right,” he said giving me a toothy grin.
“Yeah, but it was difficult to assess given all the bits and pieces of them you have to account for,” I said consolingly.
He veered off the path and into the grassy blades that filled the schools courtyard. I followed suit, the dew stricken grass sticking to my sandaled feet making them damp. He walked a little ways before I asked “where are you going?”
“You’ll see,” He said as we walked further and further from the main building.
“What did you think about during meeting?” I asked him, uncomfortable with the silence between us.
“Uhm, I thought a lot about friendship, and how hard it is to know who you can trust,” he said as he made a sharp right turn.
“Really, well you know you can trust me, right?” I said, hoping I was crossing the boundaries I had been watching oh so closely.
“Right, you’ve really helped me my first month here. I’ve been able to talk to you, and its helped a lot,” he said to me and it finally became clear where he was going.
About 20 feet away stood an old hammock. It looked tattered and old, with white stings coming apart where the white nodules of it were fastened to each other. The trees it was attached to looked frail and drooping, and I doubted it could hold much weight.
“Well good. I’m glad you know you have me if you need me,” I said, wanting to say more.
I wanted to let him now that I would do anything for him. Our relationship was so passionate, so kind and loving, of course this was only on my end. To him, I was just a friend, just one of the guys, but to me, he was everything. I woke up in the morning excited to spend another day with him, and I couldn’t go to bed at night without him saying goodnight. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and the only way out was to stay silent.
He got on the hammock and it sagged when he got on, laying his head back and gazing at me where I stood leaned up against a tree. He was wearing his signature brown hoodie with a tan peace sign embroidered on its back. There was a pile of leaves below the hammock ad with each small swing, they rustled softly flying to either side.
“This is a two person hammock you know,” He said invitingly.
“A what?” I said laughing slightly at his pronunciation. He said it as it was spelled with an “o” sound instead of the “i” sound.
“A two person hammock,” he said again, looking bemused at my confusion.
“You mean Hamm-ick,” I said, enunciating the last syllable jokingly.
“No, I mean Hammock. Where in the spelling of that would do you see and I?” He said in a tone that indicated this was not the first time he had this conversation.
“I don’t know, that’s a good point.” I said, strolling over to the hammock and reaching out a hand to steady it so I could claim my spot.
“Yeah, back home we always say it the way it’s spelled, but whenever I say it here people always jump on me for it,” he said, sliding over on the white array of webs.
He slid over to far and the hammock flew up sideways. I pushed hard on where I had hold of the fibers and it stopped as it was completely straight up in the air. He was holding on, his fingers and toes were intertwined with the hammock and he was holding on to it as I mountain climber does a cliff. Fear flashed in his eyes and I could see it as I slowly pressed on the opposite side, lowering it down to normal height.
“Thanks,” he said in a breathy voice.
I sat down next to him and carefully leaned back, making sure that the weight wasn’t imbalanced before finally saying “no problem.” 
I could feel his body heat radiating from beside me as I laid my head down. His hair tickled my ear softly. I could hear his heart beating quickly, faster than normal. He turned over carefully and propped himself up on one elbow.
“I read your story,” he said.
“Really, what did you think?” I said, my heart fluttering softly, hoping he would appreciate my style of writing.
“I really liked it. It was clever how you had the couple meet beforehand on the train, before actually realizing they were each other’s blind dates,” he said.
“Thanks, that means a lot to me. It’s one of my best pieces I think,” I replied, craning my neck and lifting my head so I could look him in the eyes while I talked to him.
“You should send me more if you want,” he said. The wind blew through the trees branches and brushed over us, leaves fluttering to the ground. It blew on us too, but I wasn’t cold laying there next to him.
“I’ll do that,” I said. I had an overwhelming will to express to him how much I cared. How much I loved him.
I moved over to my right so we were no longer on top of each other trying hard not to throw off the balance. His beige short clothed legs were sprawled out and upwards and it was hard to make it so our legs didn’t intertwine. I took a fast breath and then turned my head; his hair was tickling my cheek as it flew in the wind making it hard to see him through the shroud of course dark locks.
“I’ve really enjoyed hanging out with you that last few weeks,” I said. I laughed nervously at the end of it, immediately regretting doing so as it came off high pitched and feminine.
“Me too,” He said. I boar into his eyes the clear almost transparent blue of ice, but I couldn’t see anything. I saw his pupils, so large, black and perfect. I saw his eyelashes blink to keep out the chilly air. I tried to read his thoughts, see what he was thinking, but he didn’t even give off a clue.
“It’s just like, you know, I feel like I’m starting to really…..” I trailed off suddenly leaving a palpable tension. My eyes started to water and my stomach started to make disgruntled noises. I had a bad feeling about this. He was my only friend, what would happen if I told him, and he didn’t’ like it. Would he completely abandon me? Would we just pretend nothing happened? Could he feel the same way? Could we share our first kiss right hear amidst the delicate strands of this hammock, or however you want to say it?
I took another deep breath and then said “I’m starting to really like…” I was cut off by a nasty snap. I toppled over on top of him and we both landed with a crunch on the bed of leaves previously below us. My head landed with a thud against his back, our bodies intertwined in a pile of heat and jagged edged leaves. I rolled over onto my back and laughed slightly. He started to laugh too and we just sat there for a couple minutes before getting back up and assessing the damage.
The rope that was tied around the far tree holding up the hammock had snapped and the ends of it were frayed, like the fragile hairs of a lion’s tale. He picked it up and strolled around the tree. I followed suit and watched as he pulled a scarlet knife from out of his pocket. I stepped back a little, startled, my foot stepped down on a branch and it cracked beneath me.
“What?” He asked, snickering a little at my reaction.
“Nothing, it’s just, I didn’t know you carried a knife around with you,” I said, smiling to try and make up for my obvious discomfort.
“Really? Everyone does it where I’m from. It would be weird for you not to. My dad gave me this one for my birthday last year.” He said, holding the knife out for me to grab.
I took a hold of it and looked at it admiringly for a second then handed it back.
“It’s beautiful.” I said smiling at him.
“Thanks,” he said, and then he got to work sawing off the end of the severed rope.
When the tassels were finally off, he ushered me over, and said “will you hold this two end tight so I can tie them in a knot?”
“Yeah, “I said, shuffling over to where he was standing. His warm hands grazed mine as he handed the end to me.
“Jesus, your hands are freezing,” he said, grasping them firmly in his palms.
“Yeah, they always are,” I said, nervous that this had upset him in some way.
He brought them up to his head and blew on them slightly. The warm air engulfed my hands and the cold started to vanish. I closed my eyes and just enjoyed the feeling of being so close to him. It took everything I had to breakaway and say “the rope?”
I held the two ends as tight as I could at the trunk. To my surprise, he slid under my arms, so now he was between me and the tree, leaving only inches between us. I let my hands slide down the rope a little to allow him more access to the ends. He began to fiddle with the ends, putting one end into a circle, and then the other through it. In order to watch I had my chin basically on top of his shoulder. Finally the he told me I could let go. I did so and the hammock stayed up, looking just the same as before we sat down upon it.
“Alright, well we better get out of here just in case,” he said, taking off at a running pace, as if to suggest a race.
I ran after him, the cool breeze stinging my rosy cheeked face.
I awoke from my second memory to the sound of a deep snoring in front of me. I kicked his back gently and he startled awake, turning back to give me a red eyed glare. I knew he knew that I wouldn’t have woken him up for no reason, so I just tilted my head and grinned at him sassily. He turned back around, adjusting his seating again, his neck sliding back down onto my scarf. My eyes returned to the ceiling so I could continue counting.
322, 323, 324. I stopped on 324 and thought that he was right. He was right when he told me he didn’t love me. He was right that we weren’t right for each other. He had to leave me for a couple years, collect his thoughts and then consider where to go from there. He was right that this wasn’t going anywhere. “It’s not like I don’t care about you, it’s just that I can’t do more than that. You’ll never be more than a friend to me, and I need you to understand that,” he said to me two months prior to this silent moment. I rolled the lint ball between my fingers some more and waited for the tears to come again like they had before, cascading down my cheeks at the thought of losing him, but they didn’t come.
I counted on before I finally got to the end. 358, 359, 360. I smiled and was reminded that I wasn’t all wrong either. Just because he didn’t want me in that way, didn’t mean that I wasn’t allowed to care for him. I could treat him well, we could be friends, just like the old days. Maybe this time it could even be more of an even friendship instead of a one way street. He would let me borrow his calculator for my math homework, and I could still bring him peach coconut shakes from the ice cream shop in town.
The room irrupted in a fit of silent handshakes, as was custom at the end of our worships. I reached over to my left and shook the hand of the women next to me, then my math teacher, who was on the other side of me. I finally turned straight in front of me, where his hand stood outstretched. I reached over and shook it firmly, his warm mixing with my cold once again, more than three years later.
As the rest of the room began to get up and exit the building I stayed seated. He got up, yawned and stretched, rotating his body left to right. He reached back down on his seat and grabbed the scarf that had fallen there.
“Thanks,” he said handing it back to me.
I looked into his red rimmed eyes and said “no problem, how was your nap?”
“It was great, until somebody interrupted it,” he said, his voice rising accusatorily on “somebody.”
“Yea, your snoring was intense. Sorry about that,” I said.
“That’s fine, I would have done the same,” he said laughing a sleep deprived laugh.
I got up out of my seat and stretched as well. He started to walk out and I followed him. I snuck the lint ball into my pocket, patting it protectively afterwards. Our footsteps creaked on the old wooden floor as we made our way to the exit. I pushed on the old white paint chipped door to open it for him.
“So, 360?” I said to him playfully as he exited.
“Yep, you always were right about that,” he said smiling at me as he walked down the steps.
I leaned up against the door and put on my scarf. As I readjusted it I thought I caught a whiff of brown sugar, and I pulled it up to my nose. His scent had imprinted on the scarf.  I watched him as he stepped up the path to the boys dorm, smiling to myself and continuing to smell the scarf. If there was one thing I did know, it was that there were 360 ceiling tiles in the meeting house.