Right Where You Left Me

that tattoo

August slips away from my useless grasp and is reduced to nothing but a moment in time. While my summer was nothing but cruel to me, I can't help but want to stay in the nostalgic familiarity, no matter how uncomfortable it may be.

Summer wisps away like the smoke of the cigarettes Nate always has. He still smokes well into the school year; we ride our bikes to school, and he always makes us leave a little early so he can have a quick smoke before class starts.

"Wake up," I say, barging into Nate's room and slamming on the light. Brightness floods his room and he groans in annoyance, rolling over and giving me a perfect view of his lean, shirtless back.

"Let me sleep," he says, his voice raspy from sleep. He buries his head in his pillow, and his messy brown hair is the only thing visible.

"Never," I say. "School starts soon. You've managed to show up on time everyday. Don't break your streak now."

"Fine," he relents. He sits up and runs a hand through his tousled hair, swinging his legs, clad in plaid pajama pants, over the edge of the bed.

I force my gaze not to drift to his chest, so I instead turn to the full length mirror propped against his wall. Today was a rare occasion where I opted to look nice for school; I ditched the sweats for low rise flare jeans and a cropped brown cardigan that covers my shoulders from the chilly morning air. My hair is still unruly and wild, but I took the time to tame it with some hairspray and hair oil. A few beaded necklaces hang from my neck.

"You look nice," Nate says sleepily, setting one hand on my waist as he moves past me to get to his dresser. He opens up the drawer and digs through it for a shirt. I stare at the part of my waist that Nate's hand was on mere moments ago.

"Adya." His voice snaps me out of my thoughts and I quickly look up at him. "Which one is better?" He holds up two shirts. They are both black and look exactly the same.

I furrow my brows, but he shoots me a lopsided grin before I can speak. "Nah, I'm just fuckin' with you." He tosses one back in the drawer and slips on the other shirt. I go back to admiring my outfit in the mirror.

He disappears into the washroom, and I look through his bookshelf. He owns a lot of Russian literature; Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Pushkin. Yellow sticky notes that are fading and crumpled at the edges stick out of the pages of his books; I can vaguely make out the scrawled writing of a black ink pen.

Nate enters the room again, except now he smells like toothpaste. He moves past me again, and I hold my breath in anticipation but he doesn't touch my waist again. I am mainly relieved, but a small part of me twinges with disappointment.

I watch as he grabs a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and tucks them into one pocket; in the other, he shoves a pack of mint gum. He grabs his latest read, Notes from Underground, and drops it into his backpack along with his sticky notes and black ink pen. He zips up his bag and slings it over one shoulder, then turns to me.

He steps towards me before I can move away, and I am trapped between his bed frame and his bookshelf. His eyes dance across my face. He picks up the chain of my necklace with his fingers, his knuckles brushing against my collarbone.

"I like this necklace," he murmurs. His hair is tousled from the bed. He's tall and warm and the fabric of his shirt looks so soft. I find myself fighting the strange urge to hug him - to wrap my arms around him and sink into him.

I don't do any of that. He stares at me for a moment longer before stepping past me, his body brushing mine. We are both silent.

And then we're biking down the gravel lane, the sun beginning to rise and burn red against the cooling green hills. It's impossible to watch, but it's impossible to turn away as the sun reaches her fingers out, splayed against the sky's blue backdrop, streaks of lavender and purple and colors I didn't even know existed.