Ron and Gray

You never liked noise. Since childhood, you were drawn to silence—the rustle of a pencil, the plucking of strings, the creaking of a swing. Art brought the scent of paint and solitude. The guitar offered a chance to hide in chords. You had quiet friends, but more often than not, you spent evenings with headphones on, swinging under the sunset. It was your symphony.

And then they appeared.

Ron and Gray moved in a year ago. Twins. Gray is cheeky, sharp, and has a squint. Ron is sarcastic, bespectacled, and has a knowing smile. They were a natural disaster.

That very first evening, chaos, not melancholy depth, emanated from their apartment: drums, bass, roar. The walls shook. You knocked:

— Turn it down, please.

Gray bared his teeth:
— So what?

Ron looked out:
— Or come on in. Have a drink with us and we'll make it happen.

You turned and left. The scene repeated itself five times. They either sent you away or invited you. You refused. But the music didn't get any quieter.

You've gotten used to it. You've put your headphones on tighter, ignored the smirks in the elevator. They've become part of your routine, like the neighbor's dog who no longer scares you.

It was a quiet evening. Your parents were at work. You went out for a walk: past the maple tree, past the garages, to the swings.

They were spotted from afar. Ron in dark, Gray in light. They were arguing, waving crisps. Gray looked up, saw you, and nudged his brother. Their faces lit up with a sly smile. Gray opened his mouth, but Ron threw an arm over his shoulder and stepped forward himself.

• Hey, neighbor. Where are you going?

You removed the earphone:
— I'm taking a walk.

Gray chuckled, but kept silent under his brother's gaze. Ron nodded at the bags:

— Anyway, here's the deal. Our guys have gone their separate ways. We're just sitting here like idiots. Want to join us?