The Bright Side

Chapter 2 - Part 1

TRISTAN

Excruciating, unbearable pain. I'm torn into pieces and there are stars waltzing before my eyes. Near death experience. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Breaking my arm during the accident was a cakewalk compared to this.

"Oh, my poor boy." Gran pinches my cheeks so hard, I'm afraid she'll just tear the flesh from my skull. She pulls me against her bosom almost choking me and all I smell is chamomile.

"Gran, ouch." I lift my cast, desperately hoping that she'll now stop trying to kill me. It works. She lets go of me, reluctantly though, and I take the chance to step back a bit.

"Oh, sorry, boy. Are you in pain?" Her expression is worried and I do my best to look pitiful and hurt.

I am in pain. My arm is killing me. I carried my board the whole way across town because every bump in the concrete made me whine like a kicked dog. I rest it against the wall next to her patio, only to find its usual place taken by another one. The deck is completely unfamiliar, some drawing, and it has super heavy trucks attached, the kind that most certainly won't allow any great tricks. I'm puzzled, because as far as I know, Gran doesn't have any other acquaintances who skate.

"Come, come, Tristan." She beckons me over to the table and pulls a garden chair out for me like I'm disabled. "Sit." She shoves me into the chair and lets out a long sigh as she eyes my cast. My snapback lands on the patio with a small thud as she pushes it from my head. Oh, right, a gentleman doesn't wear a hat in the presence of a lady. Jesus.

"Oh, your beautiful hair, boy!"

I run my fingers through what once had been a chin long mane of black curls and is now restrained to the top of my head. Because of the stitches I got me an undercut and shortened it in the back, there are only a few long strands left in the front that I can tuck behind my ear. I like it though, makes me look kind of punk.

She brushes her hand over my hair and sighs again.

"What can I get you? Tea?"

"Tea's fine, Gran." I lean back and try to relax; the flower printed cushions are - even if ugly -soft and comforting. Still, I'm tense, as always when I'm here. As if my Dad, her son, could magically show up. I can hear her lawn mower and every lawn mower owned in a half mile radius buzz around, the air is saturated with the smell of freshly cut grass. You know how it works. One neighbour starts and it spreads like a disease. Especially on such a warm and peaceful day like this; even the birds seem too lazy to sing their choral.

She lives in a small cottage close to the beach. Her garden isn't that big, but pretty contorted because of all the bushes and potted plants that stand around.

Usually, I come by every other week and mow her lawn, but not today and not anytime soon. She seems to have found a replacement though. A guy appears in my field of vision and he's pushing the mower with grim determination. He's about my age and looks like Gran got herself an upgrade, a grandson 2.0, updated and improved. 

We're both lean, but while I'm short, he's tall. His hair is dark, too, but short and wavy, it peeps out from under his beanie. As he comes closer, sizing me up, I can see that the blue of his eyes is so bright and glowing that mine are rendered rather unremarkable. His features are well defined; hallow cheeks, sharp cut nose; his face is nothing as soft and boyish as mine. Something about him seems vaguely familiar. I hint a nod at the guy and he nods back, his face absolutely vacant.

Gran comes back out, carrying a tray with three cups and a water kettle and arranges everything on the hand knit tablecloth.

"Sky!" she shouts across the garden and waves her arms like a ramp agent.