"God-damned ham, again," sighed A, surveying the separated parts of his sandwich. "I guess it's too much to ask that he remember that I hate ham." A dropped the pieces of meal back onto their plastic sandwich bag. He ruffled through his lunch bag and considered jumping back into the lunch line, but then he remember that the school had a new "No credits" policy. His pockets, he knew, were empty, and that just made him resent his father even more.
B lowered his gaze. A was in a dark mood, and B always felt an overwhelming urge to defuse A's anger. It wasn't that A was dangerous; it was more that B couldn't stand conflict.
"Maybe he didn't know," B tried.
"He knew. He knows because I tell him every time he packs me a ham sandwich, which is nearly once a week. He just chooses to forget."
B cleared his throat. "Well, maybe he just-"
A could see the anxiety start to well up in B's eyes. His head would tilt back, his eyes opening wider and wider, his mouth agape. Was it some evolutionary expression of submission that produced this distinct reaction? Was it a modern translation of the complicated emotional turmoil deep within? Was it a carefully choreographed gesture designed to disarm the combatants?
Whatever was the case, A couldn't stand the look. He put B out of his misery. "Look, forget it. It's just a sandwich. I'll swing by home next period and grab something."
Recovering, B asked, "Don't you have botany next period?"
A stood, crumpling the remains of his ham sandwich and gathering the rest of his trash. "Can't. I'm grabbing some food," he motioned with the sandwich, "and then I'm meeting an old friend. See you at cross country practice?" A made his way for the door before waiting for a proper reply.
"Hey," B stopped him. "Is this the old friend I think it is?"
A, against his will, became guarded. "Maybe..."
"Well," B began, trailing off. "Tell her hello for me."
A left the lunch room.