Lily Valley

Banana Malt

Words tumble out his mouth into the hot summer's air as he takes his shirt off. He's speaking to his mother. Momma's boy. He visits nearly every other weekend. You have watched him grow into a man as you followed behind, letting the rural sun bake you into a woman. Younger. Ripe.

You're watching him sit on the porch from an indoor window. All too familiar.

There goes that boy who has lived enough to call himself a man.

He has lived across from you since you had been born into this dusty world. You still remember how your feet burned against the street as you ran to meet him as a kid. A kid then turned into a quiet, pretty teenager once he had begun to live like a young John Wayne—pretending to forget your name as you waved, chasing too many girls at once, getting drunk in his old red mustang with a few friends. A careless seventeen year old too cool for home. The blazing hot boy under the blazing hot sun.

That was years ago.

He grew up tall, grew into his muscles, grew up like a real man.

Now, you are both older. He has matured, but, of course, you still have that girlish wonder of the world, of sex, of boys. That coolness of bathroom tiles on your fresh feet; drinking from the kitchen sink; drool all over your mouth as you watch a porno; eating brownies at midnight; all that dazzle of innocence that you can't wait to rid yourself of.

Jean could take that away. Make you into a woman.

He is the man of your fantasies, shirtless, sweating in the summer salt, drinking a lemonade as he spreads his legs wide open. You wondered what he'd say if he saw you. It has been awhile since he has even looked across the street, though he sits in your direction, you are sure he is looking past your roof and into the afternoon sky, bright and blue and, as you can remember, raining down fire; scorching every bit of pavement in your way of meeting him.

Would his mouth fall open at your developed body? Agape like an idiot, as if he was back in highschool, all horny over an older woman. Yes, you are older now. Christ, you thought you belonged plastered on a poster like Megan Fox and Halle Berry (though that was your stupid, childish confidence diluted from a feeling you couldn't quite name. Confidence in front of a mountain of insecurity, like the air in a syringe before a dose of awkwardness and awareness. Jean Kirstein. That's all.)

It was bittersweet, staring at him as he stared at the sky, knowing he'll be gone after he says goodbye to his mother and you'll just have to await his return until next weekend and then watch him like your own personal movie. But you couldn't be drawn away from your spot against the window. The perfect view. You just wanted to lick the sweat off of him, say some disgusting things right to his handsome face, watch it get all inflamed and frustrated, then go get a strawberry milkshake...let it drip down your mouth as he watched, getting revved up like his fucking mustang.

You wanted him to just flicker his eyes towards you, just for a second, so that he'd see your flirtatious gaze, that little bitten smile on your lips, leaning so close to the glass you could smell the cleaning supplies last used on it.

Come on, Jean.

Look over here if you wanna fuck me.

Come on...

But, succeeding your unfortunate expectations, he just finishes his drink before heading back inside. He was never going to look. You groan, push yourself away from the window, then find yourself in your bed, lolling and bored. You hear him pull out of the rocky driveway and he drives away into a world you aren't familiar with.

As the day went dark, you listened to the humming of bugs like crickets and fireflies coming to life from their hiding spots underground. They're better in the vernal season.