The Classix

(OLD) Chapter 1

Note: FIRST FAMOUX FRIDAY! I'm not gonna lie, this couldn't have come at a better time. Today is big. If you read my MaximumPop! feature (there is a link on my profile!!) you'll understand me when I say that this thing is . . . colossal.

emeray

It is a perfectly cloudless day in March, yet snow hits the pavement between he and I like an insistent, brutal storm. This should be impossible––snow without clouds to bring it down from the sky––but it wouldn't be the first contradiction we've faced today. The very nature of our impending interaction breaks almost every boundary we've grown accustomed to these past months. Two hundred and seventy four days and three pens on paper are pretty indefatigable subjects; not the easiest of opposers to vanquish. Thus, if today it snows without any clouds to supply it, and if today we can move down this pavement with full faith in our intentions, no moment should be put to waste.

We walk, serendipitously, toward one another.

I keep my hands by my sides, my breathing quick and choppy. It feels like the first time in a thousand years that I've gotten to walk down a street without a hand by my side in need of holding. As much as I'd like to relish in it for as long as I can, I'd also like to close the distance. Chances like this don't come everyday.

He keeps his hands by his sides, his chest moving up and down slower and steadier than mine. Even so, I know for a fact that he's just as nervous as I am, if not greater; it's flooding up those eyes of his that I used to lengthily wonder whether or not I'd ever be able to read. What we're doing here is more than colossal––it's an existentially profound move for both of our images. We know exactly what the masses will say about it just as much as we have not a damn clue.

Steps are calculated but sloppy from fervor. My heart careens within my chest right along with my brain within my skull.

We are not alone along this snow-sprinkled pavement on this perfectly cloudless day in March. We are far from alone. We are in the midst of a vivid, glittering metropolis: there are passers in big peacoats on the sidewalk, shoppers in stores, vendors with bright blue umbrellas collecting the steam of their portable fryers, bright yellow taxis honking in evening traffic. The sunset is almost too perfect against the buildings––the kind newscasters would film and make small talk about on their broadcasts when there's nothing too serious to be discussed.

So much attention and life and pulsations happening around us, and yet our efforts go unvanquished still.

His steps meet my steps. My steps meet his steps.

I meet him and he meets me.

"Onward," Chapter Stones whispers.

My voice is soft to suit. "Onward."

In spite of every person gathered around us, and in spite of their peaked attention getting rendered on this one slab of sidewalk we've laid hold of as our own, and in spite of their eyes like daggers and sabers and fully flexed biceps ready to punch what they see, Chapter takes the sides of my face in his hands.

His fingers are not calloused the same way Cartney's are from years of strumming, plucking, and pressing down on the frets of an acoustic guitar. Chapter's fingers are strong and warm; without too much friction making his fingertips too thick to feel I'm there. He strokes the side of my face anyway, perhaps to make sure nothing is a mirage. I do just the same with the back of his neck.

The breaths I'm taking in come right along his exhales. The air can't quite seem to find my lungs too well––that is, well enough to help me breathe easy. My mind is a widening gyre without a center-point to hold onto. How long has it been since I've gotten to be this close to Chapter? How long will this moment last?