3rd june ; 96
There was a little pond that I found that hadn't dried up under the California sun. I had been going to it for weeks and not telling my momma. I would bike there every Monday and Thursday after dinner. As long as I kept biking through the brush, I knew I would get there. I would leave my bike somewhere near the rocks and roll my jeans up to my knees. I'd take off my shoes and socks and dip my feet into the mossy water. I'd lay back and look at the yellow-going-on-pink sky and just let the green blades run through my fingers. Listening to the leaves dancing in the breeze, I would hear the crickets chirping, and I'd rub my legs together at the chill of the wind. I'd stay there until the sun was nothing but a speck of orange paint on a navy canvas.
It was a Monday, a particularly more chilly one than usual (if 80℉ could be considered chilly). My papa was being more truthful than usual today. He let my sister know how he would appreciate if she acted less "all that". He let my momma know how it would be better if dinner could be done and waiting for him when he got home. I decided I didn't need to hear what he thought of me and I biked to the pond.
While I make it through the ferns, I smell something bitter that contrasts with the sweetness of the damp grass and sophism of the sun. I get there and see you submerged in the pond. The water sloshes at your shoulders, your narrow shoulders that are more kissed by the sun than I could ever wish to be. You have your arms stretched out beside you, fingers swirling patterns on the mud on the bank. Your head is resting against the wet grass, thrown back. Your eyes are closed, chest rising and falling, and the green water licking your collarbones.
I don't want to interrupt you, you look so tranquil. I try to leave, try to go back and get my bike, but the twig I snap under my bare feet alerts you. You open your eyes and slowly bring your fingers up to the Marlboro hanging from your lips. You inhale deeply before plucking it from your teeth's hold and lowering your head so you can look at me, actually look at me.
You smile a warm and lazy and sharp smile. My heart starts pounding and I barely hear you ask why I'm just standing here. I shift on the wet dirt with my fingers tingling, and you raise your eyebrow. "Well?" you ask, Marlboro being fiddled between your fingers. "You want a hit?"
It's about seven minutes later. "I'm Nico," you say after laughing when I cough violently from a drag of the cigarette. My feet dangle in the water, making little ripples with my rolling ankles. Your wet skin brushes against my own before you take a last long drag the stick would allow. You put it out in the mud, and you spend a whole cricket's chirp just looking at the crushed ash.
"I'm Austin." I reply too late, you're already occupied with hauling yourself out of the water. The moss clings to the small of your back, just like my eyes. You lay back down on the grass, the setting sun glistening on your wet chest and inadvertently drawing my eyes to your ribs. You draw your hands behind your head and close your eyes again. Your chapped lips part to let your tongue peek through. Faerie flies flow in the sun's path to your valleys of skin--the hollows of your ribs. My cheeks go red when I realize I'm staring.
We don't talk much. I didn't know you could speak without using words. I would stare at you and you at me. You smile with your eyes, while I smile with my teeth. Then, you go back to tracing the sun's journey through the sky from behind your eyelids. You lie there and I sit there until the moss on your calves starts becoming a home for the ants. I stand, wiping the backs of my thighs with my fingers that tasted of ash.
"I come here every Monday and Thursday," I tell you when I'm about to disappear into the green. My blood sings in my ears when you sit up onto your elbows, your skin stretching like silk across your stomach. You wear a warm and lazy and sharp smile when you reply, "I'll be waiting."
