Saturday, July 8, 2006

Well, gotta fill the space with something intresting.
Sunset.

She wasn't carring cagarette's with her today. I don't know why. She wasn't much of a chain smoker, but she'd finish off a pack if she got her hands on some. When we left the house I asked if she wanted them, but she declined.

I was afraid when she told me she wanted to wear the hat. It was gaudy, white with flowers on it. One that a housewife would wear when strolling down a park on a perfect afternoon.

This was no perfect afternoon...

The rain of most of the day didn't seem to penetrate our plans of escape from confinement. All alone in a house usually ends up with sex, and then akward silences. We both didn't want that. She faked 'em anyway.

"Hey," She stopps looking up for a moment. I hate when she looks up. Suddendly, she transcends borders, becomes astral and is engulfed by the beauty of the clouds, but, this time, she turns, and her hat falls off.

I catch it, by instinct. She is infamous to drop things from her hands, and its almost a game now. Its how we met, when she dropped something, somewhere. I don't remember, so long ago. How long ago? Can I not remember anymore? I suddendly become lost, and instantly she is curious.

"Wha?" She is playfully 'in my face', trying to break my trance, "Whaaaaat." She hits her head aginst mine, softly. Our noses touch.

"Oh," I look up, the hills comes to its apex. The horrible experance is almost done, "I just got lost in thought," We continue to walk; I, stilling holding the hat, and her with her tirditional baggy clothes that sag so far down you can see more than enough middrift. She dosen't even care. She's not teaseing. She dosen't think about stuff like that.

If only I wouldn't either...

She spins around in an odd mannor, suddendly, I cough. Then sneeze. Oddly one after the other. I look up, and she's gone.

On my back. Ow.

I step foward to attempt to recover from the increased weight (She is thin, and refuses to eat anything with the letter 'C' in it for some reason, yet she smokes... She is so weird.) and then look up to see her dumb grin right above my face, "How are you now?"

"I don't know if I should be sad for myself, or at least glad this isn't boring," I sigh. Slow trudging up the hill to comply with her wishes.

"Meanie," And with that, we emerge. The lake...

Usually, teenagers worship this lake. Some adults too. They come to play, recriate, some even have jobs here. Its a nice beautiful lake, reflecting the song of life, magnified by the beautiful sunset that just started.

I lose my footing, for she kicks my knees and I fall foward. I catch myself, thank god. I wonder if she knew I would. Her tone loses its happiness, and she suddendly sounds like she about to cry, "Stay like this."

We do. She lies on top of me while we both sit in silence. Why must we always have akward silence? Or maybe, this isn't.

"We met here," She says after a few seconds, seemingly way too long. What is the tone for?

"I know,"

"Didn't you used to paint here? What happened to that?"

"You used to write here, didn't you."

Suddendly, she isn't so curious about me. Her mood is alittle better, but she still sounds like she wants to cry, "Yeah," She rolls over, and lands beside me. I still look foward, not rushing to look away from the sunset.

"What happened to that?" I ask, to keep her occupied from drawing my attention away from it. I miss painting...

She waves it off, "You know, one time I sat here and wrote an entire book, all day. A hundred pages. From when the sun came up to when the stars shone. It was my favorite day."

"Was it fun?"

"It was when we met, silly."

Suddendly. I remember.

November. The cool tempature drove away the normals, and I sat most of the day painting for a school project. I drew her in my painting. She sat in different positions all the time and sometimes moved, so it was hard to draw her. She was my favorite part of it.

Why did I stop painting?


Nighttime.

We dwadle away the moments, and the sunset is gone. There is a blue ghost, slowly slipping the dusk away to night.

"When we met," I suddendly bring the subject back up, "Why did you throw the book away?"



She did throw it away. I had fallen asleep right before I finished the painting, and I suddendly woke up to yelling. Yelling at 10 at night. A girl, thinking noone was around to hear her desperate yells at her father, mother, whatever, I forget.

She hung up, and then began to walk away, picking up the backpack and clipboard along the way. And suddendly, while she is walking back from which she came (And while I change my painting to put more empasis on her) she turns, and throws her backpack into the lake. No reason. She just does. Her clipboard soon after.

"You know, you did it too."

She snuck up on me as I changed the painting once again, to make it show her let her papers go to the wind. And suddendly, she speaks. I don't know how long it took for me to turn around, or how many times she had to tap my back with her leg, but I do.

I forget what we talked about, but I ended up throwing my painting into the river, to make you feel better.

"So, why did you throw it in?"

"Well, I didn't like it, I only paint when I'm sad," I sigh. Hating the fact. I guess I never have been sad since I met you.

"One writes a book with a hundred and twelve pages when one is sad as well," She rolls over to look to the sky.

"What made one so sad, on the day of the hundred and twelve page book?"



Silence.

You don't awnser.

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