The artist's swirling paint brush has blotted out the grey sky with ribbons of crimson. A masterpiece, soon to be replaced by the velvety night's canvas of silver-studded black. A whispering chill prickled my arms, across my face... It reminded me that I was still there: still living, still breathing, in this moment. I watched the sea, it's never-ending rush of back and forth, to and fro. I let the noise of crashing waves and crying gulls spread to the far corners of my mind. I let it consume me... Drown me. The tang of sea salt danced on my tastebuds. The smell of greasy chippy papers burned in my nostrils. In this one moment, I was - for once - truly alive.
"You out here again, Pretty Girl?" He said.
The voice was a summer breeze, a crackling vinyl record, the turning of a page. It was everything I loved. My skin prickled - not from the cold, but from the surge of euphoria and anticipation than now overwhelmed my senses. The sky...The sea salt tang...The chippy papers... They where all gone. All that mattered was him.
"I'm always out here."
"I already knew that," He smiled. Sidling up next to me on the bench, spreading his long legs out across the pavement. What I want to know is why you're always out here." It was not a question, but a statement. He did not inquire, he demanded.
I closed my eyes for a moment. Took a deep breath. "It helps me think."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Everything and anything." I said quietly. I still faced the sea...if that was the direction of the sea, anyway. Thanks to this boy, I couldn't really remember which way was up and which way was down. I was in a state of vertigo that I was strangely enjoying.
Finally, I turned to face him. Butterfiles crowded my stomach...Killer butterflies, as big as ravens and as deadly as scorpions. Flying poisinous scorpions: not a great combination. His Spainard skin seemed to glow in the dying sunlight - so exotic, so different. Golden shafts of light danced in his emerald eyes, bewitching my jaw tight shut. I couldn't have spoken even if I'd known what to say. Oh how I wanted to reach out, brush those dark curls out of his face, crush his lips to mine. My body shuddered. Don't be stupid, I told herself, Don't do something you might regret.
"Anything, huh?" He smiled. But this boy didn't just smile. He paralysed. He knocked the breath right out of you - just with one twitch of those perfect lips in an upward direction, and you where a goner. I wondered, somewhere in the back of my entranced mind, how many girls had fallen for that smile. He ran a hand through that silky hair and leaned forward: so close I could smell him. And he smelt so good, too. How could I resist him a moment longer? "Anything in particular?"
"Nope." I said, too quickly for it to be true. "N-Nothing particular about it."
"I see..." He leaned back in the bench. I was putty in his hand and he knew it: he let the seconds tick by. Playing with me, toying with any dignity I had left. "You ever think about me, Pretty Girl?"
I blushed. "I, eh...No."
"You sound uncertain. Undecided. Am I right?" He smirked playfully. "You want me to help you decide?"
"That's not allowed," I said quickly, "A biased opinion."
He raised an eyebrow. "You keep it all shut away, don't you? In that pretty little head of yours. All your secrets...All your worries...All your fantasies."
"I'm a journalist. I don't do fantasy. I do fact."
"Really?" He tilted his head. "I've seen you pouring over Romeo & Juliet in class, Pretty Girl. I've seen you watch the other couples in the lunch hall. You're an old romantic, deep down in that oh-so-factual heart of yours."
"And how would you know that?"
"Because I know the girls I date."
I blushed. "We aren't...You don't...We're not together."
"You ever published an article before doing your research first, Pretty Girl?" He laughed, "I didn't think so."
"I've thought about you before," I said quietly.
"Oh yeah? And what do you think?" He smiled. His long fingers, worn from pluckin guitar strings, reached out and traced my skin. His touch was electric. Ripples of warmth and energy rushing through my body, like a pebble tossed into water.
"I don't get you. I don't get you...at all."
"Your a journalist. Don't you like a mystery? Don't you enjoy..." He winked at me. "...exposing people."
I bit my lip. What was I meant to do now? Admit defeat? Or play the fool and rush home? Could I do that? Could I resist the temptation of Jake Summers a moment longer? I wasn't sure. He was a bomb, waiting to explode and take me down in the blast. I didn't know what to do. I was confused and scared and lost. Boys where new to me. Especially boys like Jake Summers. He was smooth and coy; brilliantly unpredictable; and-
- And that's when he kissed me.
Right there, right then, on the bench by the sea. It was as if God pressed mute. It was as if the world went blank. All that mattered right now was this moment, this moment when Jake Summers kissed me. I breathed when he breathed; I moved when he moved. We became whole. Like a song: the melody and the lyrics, fused together with more than sound. But with love.
Perhaps he was right.
Maybe I was a hopeless romantic after all.
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