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one

This was my favorite time of the day, especially in the summer. A chorus of crickets chirped around me, the water on the lake glistened, and the sun slowly set, tracing the skies with a beautiful show of colors. It still amazed me, even after all these years - how people could take something so marvelous for granted was beyond me.

I sat on a little wooden stool I had brought, made by my father just for this purpose - for me to paint. He was a woodworker, and he thoroughly pleased everyone in our little town in Maine with his homemade creations - he was an artisan too, of his own sort. His work even caught the eye of people outside our town - Important people. His work showed around the world. And although we could afford something bigger than our cozy ranch, as he always said, "Money can't buy anything better than this." However, it could buy the luxury paints I was using.

I closed my eyes for a moment, figuring out what I wanted to do before dipping my brush into the paint and creating a stroke of vivid red on the otherwise blank piece of paper. Art, to me, was my safety zone - not that I liked to hide from anything. I speak my mind on the things that matter, but my thoughts are always wandering, wandering - that's not the case when I'm painting or drawing. The rest of the world ceases to matter, and it's only me, my paints, and the sun tucking itself in for the night under a blanket of color.  Tonight the sunset seems to be even more spectacular than usual, and I find myself carried away in an attempt to document it with the colors I had to work with.

I don't know how long I sat there, but when I regained consciousness of the world, the sky was a dark blue and the wind whipped around my skin, my light summer dress not much cover against the nighttime breeze. I stood up, getting ready to pack up when I heard a voice.

"That's a very pretty painting." I whipped around. About a yard away, leaning against a tree, was a boy I had never seen before. In the fading light, I could make out green eyes, dirty blonde hair, and a shirt with red and white stripes and stars - the American flag.

"How long have you been here?" I stuttered, turning away and hoping he hadn't noticed me giving him the one-over.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I hadn't planned on it. I was just walking through and thought I'd see the lake...but I getting up kind of captivated in you working instead. I should've said something earlier." I put my last brush in its case and picked everything up, being especially careful with the painting because it hadn't dried yet.

"No, it's okay. You're not from around here, are you?" His accent was strong - if I was correct, a British one.

"Uhm, I'm from England, actually. I'm just visiting my aunt and uncle for the week." Aha! Right on the dot. "Do you need help carrying anything?" The eagerness in his voice made it hard to turn the offer down. Besides, I wasn't keen on leaving him just yet - I wanted to know more about him. I handed off my painting sets and began to short walk to my house.

"I live right around the block. Um, we never really introduced ourselves. I'm Elisa."

"I'm Brooklyn."

"I think I remember Marcy and Richard saying something about their nephew coming over - Have you been here before? If so, I'm sorry that I didn't remember you." Our feet scuffled the ground.

"No, this is the first time." A million questions sprung to mind, like, why this year, then? But I'd only just met the guy, and maybe it was for personal reasons. Either way, whether he'd been willing to talk more or not, it didn't matter, seeing as we were already at my house.

"Well, thank you for helping," I said, gathering my things back. "It was nice meeting you."

"You too." He said. I began to walk down the pathway to the garage. When I turned back, he was still there.

"Do you know your way back?" I called out.

Blushing, he said "yes" and began walking away. Shaking my head, I couldn't help but grin - and hope a little that I would be seeing him again.