Strangers in Lanes: Friendship Never Shared
Mitchell is everywhere and nowhere in my life. I see him around town—at the local coffee shop, crossing the street near the high school, sometimes at the gym where his walk catches my eye. It’s a peculiar gait, upright but somehow goofy, like he’s trying to appear confident while simultaneously fighting against his own body’s awkward rhythm.
There’s something about Mitchell that catches my eye. Maybe it’s the way he moves—stiffly erect at the gym, arms swinging with an almost mechanical precision, yet still managing to look charmingly off-kilter. In my imagination, we’re best friends, and our perfect day would always start at Sunset Lanes, the old bowling alley that’s been a fixture of our small suburban world since before we were born.
I picture us arriving together, the worn wooden floors creaking beneath our feet. Mitchell would have that worn leather jacket—the one I’ve seen him wear on chilly autumn mornings—draped casually over the back of a chair. His walk would be the same—that strange, upright stride that somehow makes him both conspicuous and endearing.
We’d rent those ugly rental shoes, the ones with decades of stories embedded in their scuffed leather, and choose our bowling balls with the kind of serious deliberation reserved for life-changing decisions. I can almost hear the echo of his goofy laugh bouncing off the bowling alley walls.
Our first game would be terrible. Gutter balls, wild throws, more laughter than precision. Mitchell would have this infectious laugh—I imagine it’s loud and unexpected, the kind that makes strangers turn and smile. We’d order greasy fries and cheap cola, the kind that comes in those tall plastic pitchers that always remind me of every small-town bowling alley ever filmed in an indie movie.
By the second game, we’d find our rhythm. I’d learn that Mitchell has a killer hook shot, and he’d tease me about my overly serious approach to each throw. The fluorescent lights would cast that particular shade of nostalgic yellow that makes everything feel both timeless and immediate.
In reality, Mitchell remains a stranger. A face I recognize but have never truly known. But in this perfect bowling day, we’re more than just two people who happen to inhabit the same small town. We’re friends, connected by nothing more than shared geography and the universal language of gutter balls and strikes.
The bowling alley would be our world—a microcosm of friendship that exists only in my imagination, but feels more real with each passing moment. And always, in the back of my mind, is that image of Mitchell—walking upright, slightly goofy, completely unaware of the entire world I’ve built around him.