Fifteen | ✓

one

On the first week of her fifteenth summer in her fifteenth year of existence, came a rather life-turning experience.

But should he really be described as a simple experience? Christopher was not an experience, maybe.

He was an unexpected storm that shook her world and took hold of it and swept her off her feet one cold evening.

It was foggy that day; the moon had ushered the sun away from the sky, now bathing the city with its eery somewhat magical glow. Maybe it was the distracting magic of the moon, Catherine still insists, that blinded her from seeing the oncoming vehicle as she struggled to grasp the edges of her sketches that flew away.

Maybe it was the distracting magic of the moon that restricted her heart from palpitating, from pulsing rapidly against her chest as her world froze and memories flashed before her eyes.

Maybe it was the distracting magic of the moon that sent a precious human being in the person of Christopher that night, as his broad palm circled around her wrist and pulled her away from danger.

His eyes were a mesmerizing shade of brown, was the first thing that Catherine realized, with a sort of glassy effect that enabled her to see her reflection in them.

"What the hell were you thinking?" She heard him scold, his voice sounding distant, as if it had been produced from another world and not from the boy in front of her. The ends of his long hair brushed against her face. "You could have died."

She swallowed, righting herself and easing her weight off his hand that had still a been poised at her waist. "But I'm not, right? I'm fine."

The boy looked towards the street, sighting her drawings that had become soaked in the murky water of a pothole, and shredded underneath rubber tires. "But your papers aren't," he observed as a couple of them blew further into the wind, creating a small torrent of art amidst the dark sky on the dark street in the dark city.

Catherine watched him salvage one from the corner of the sidewalk, its corner chopped off and it's edges stained with brown - a similar brown to that of his eyes.

He thrust it forward to her, his palm warm as he grazed her skin.

"You keep it," she said, pushing his hand back to himself, convincing herself that the shiver that ran through her spine was just a consequence of the chill, irrespective of the fact that it was May.

His eyes widened slightly, gaze dropping downwards once more to admire the artwork. "Thank you," he finally said. "Thanks, Sketch."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "My name is not Sketch."

"I know." He flashed her a small smile, nodding his head. "You sign on your drawings; I know your name, but I'll choose Sketch." It came somewhat as a surprise to her as he started to turn to leave after those few words, but is that not what all strangers do?

Then and there Catherine decided that she did not want to be strangers with him, and in impulse she called, "but what is yours?"

He smiled again, cheeks stretching taut. "Christopher."

And after Christopher had left, it was then her heart had remembered how to beat, vibrating with so much force she feared that her ribs would buckle from the pressure. And something told her that it wasn't just because of the effect of the adrenaline of her near death experience.

She found herself happy, nevertheless that a portion of her hard work and sweat had been destroyed that day in a lonely road; nevertheless that a portion of her hard work and sweat had morphed into paper mâché and confetti, and she waited, eagerly, until she would see Christopher again.

What she did not know was that yes, Christopher might have been an unexpected yet exhilarating storm, shaking things out of balance and infusing excitement in just that moment. He was the wind, he was the rush, he was the light of the thunder.

But after every storm there is destruction.