Little Redhead (#OnceUponNow)

first quarter

"I think what I feel inside is something like touching boiling water. You don't react to the pain at first, and the warmth is comforting. But an instant later you feel what you've been dreading – a kind of scalding heat that's so hot it feels cold. And then, before you know it, you've been burned."

– Charlotte's Journal

August 26, 2016

~*~

When Zev releases my hand, the loss of contact snaps Central Park back into existence. It's like a clouded spell has been waved away once he lets go, and my empty hand hangs limply for half a moment before I realize and drop it back to my lap. It's an odd sensation, feeling time jar back into motion simply in a millisecond.

And with this return of reality, I remember that the sunset – the thing which I dread – is quickly approaching. The sun's dipped low past the tops of surrounding skyscrapers, and its yellow-orange rays have already begun to impinge upon scarlet.

"It's getting late," I blurt out. "I should get going."

Zev watches me, like some sort of vulture, as I tuck the book against my chest. It's only when I stand that he attempts a protest. "Look, Braith," he begins, leisurely pointing above the trees, "it can't be later than 5. The sun won't set for hours."

"That's where you're wrong," I say, somewhat bitterly. Of all people, I know exactly when the sun will begin to set. "I've got to get home. Nice to meet you."

I stumble over the last bit, because really, this was the oddest meeting I've ever had. But as I step away from the bench and start down the pathway toward the park's north exit, I hear Zev stand to follow me.

He comes up behind me, stepping around my left side to walk with me, his hands buried in the pockets of his shorts. I practically stare in surprise as he grins back at me, walking along the path beside me. Blankly, I ask, "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Zev replies easily. "I'm walking you home. Except I don't get why you have to run off so early. You got a boyfriend?"

I know the question was at least partly a joke, because when I glance at him through a loose overhang of red curls, he's still grinning. A college-aged girl jogs past us on my right, all yoga pants and sweat-streaked straight hair. Zev watches her for a moment as I finally reply out of a stunned silence, "No, I don't have a boyfriend. I just don't like to be out late."

We step through the Central Park gates and onto 72nd, and I watch Zev out of the corner of my eye as I turn to the right. He follows, walking beside me at leisurely pace. I wonder if it's a bad idea to allow him to follow me all the way back to the apartment building. After all, I only met him twenty minutes ago.

But Zev continued to talk to me - "Anyway, tell me more about yourself" – and continued to make me laugh, so I quickly forgot what I had been so worried about. He spoke to me as easily as if we had been friends for months, instead of mere strangers less than an hour earlier. It's as though we skipped the awkward, beginning stage of any new friendship and jumped straight into an easy-going, teasing relationship. It's unlike anything I ever experienced.

This ability of his to make me laugh so easily, and to make butterflies tickle my lungs and ribs, convinces me to allow him to walk me nearly all the way home. We reach my street and I can see the apartment complex just thirty feet down the road, across from an old Laundromat.

"You've never tried beer?" Zev chokes in disbelief. I shake my head shyly, since the only alcohol I've consumed is a few sips of wine from my mother's glass – and, admittedly, a tiny taste of vodka cranberry at a house party, which I hastily spat out. "Impossible. You're what, sixteen?"

"Seventeen," I correct him, a bit stingily.

"Even worse." He shakes his head dramatically, like this news has shocked him beyond words. "You haven't lived. I'll get you one, and you can taste it."

I'm saved from producing a casual response, because the apartment complex's gate has come up on our left. Slowly coming to a stop, I gesture to the brick-faced building and say, "Well, this is me."

The gate is iron-wrought but rusted nearly to brown, and only a resident's electronic key can unlock it. I pull my wallet from the back pocket of my cut-offs, fumbling to unzip it and remove the white plastic card key.

By the time I've gotten the card in my hand and slipped the wallet back into my pocket, I turn to see Zev clicking a pen and holding a tiny scrap of paper in one hand. I stare as he presses the paper to his thigh and scribbles a phone number in black ink. The idea of him actually wanting to give me his phone number is oddly exhilarating.

Zev clicks the pen closed and folds the scrap paper in half. He reaches forward boldly and slips the paper into the right front pocket of my shorts. I feel his fingertips brush against my hipbone beneath the denim, still cool in temperature despite this sweltering heat.

As I stand there, dumbstruck, Zev steps back. He gives me that laid-back, half-of-a-grin where only one corner of his lips curves upwards. Just as he starts back down the way we came, Zev says smoothly, "See you around, Braith."