Sunday

4

The sun against my bare arms feels like the light, tingly kisses from a lost lover; one who hasn't been seen since before a rainstorm, before an eternity of cloudy greys and drowsy days. Today is a cool glass of citrus tea with ginseng and a lemon garnish, and if I am the recipient, in my newlywed-like sense of carefree grace, then Emery is the ice.

As it's Wednesday, classes go until 5 save for today, as today I skipped my lunch period in order to leave school sooner. Today, my classes ended at 4-but my stomach is eating itself alive.

The reason for the change of schedule is that a day prior, before parting with one another, plans were made with Emery to meet at 4 on the dot, at the park once again. I'd told him it wouldn't be an issue in the slightest, but part of me may have been succumbing to his eyes and his grin and the way his remarks of kindness are laced with intellect and profoundness. I didn't take many things into account; such as my very human appetite, or the distance from the school to the park. Given, it's not very far, but is considerably worse on an empty stomach.

Despite the circumstances, I make the strenuous walk to the park under the-quite worthy of mentioning-perfect sunlight and creamy blue sky. Not a cloud is out today. The only things between me and the ocean of sky up above, are the trees and the small fingers of twigs off of branches that make for a collage of both detail and abandon up against the blue. Yet, I can't enjoy it to its full extent. I really should have grabbed something to eat back at Omlatte.

Oh, but the day; it's succulent and gorgeous outside, in a temperature that hasn't blessed this small town in way too long of a time. It's not too hot and not too cool, and my untied hair is free to move and dance upon the light zephyr that occasionally saunters by.

Upon arriving at the park, I take a seat on the usual bench and unsling the bag from my shoulder, placing it next to me. Something is compelling me to write, and whether it be the way the warmth beckons bare skin to tan and warm to its heart's content, or the way the clear sky beckons curiosity from children who run about and try to count the clouds that aren't present, I find myself unpacking my pad and pen and touching one curiously to the other, waiting for the words to flow as fluidly and surely as sand from a dune, or sun upon a flower, or water under a lily.

And maybe I'd love to express the sight and scent and sense of this honey-glazed afternoon, but all that falls upon the paper compares to somewhat of an empty, low dryness. I really wish I'd grabbed something to eat.

It's funny what my brain will make me do, just for the sake of an object of interest. It's a battle of priorities, and for some reason, a pair of eyes in flannel beat eating.

"Hey," I hear a voice from behind me. My head whips around-it's Emery.

"Hello there," I grin.

He stands behind the bench, and I'm turned to face him. "Sorry I'm late. I figured I'd pick up a few things before I came to see you. How was school today?"

"Nothing big," I shrug, "but what did you have to go pick up?"

He chuckles. "Well, as the famous and gorgeous Noe once put it, 'just stuff'."

I cock my head with a slight grin. "Gorgeous?"

He looks away from me with a casual smile. "Did I stutter?"

The sun feels brighter now that he's here. He's wearing a distressed Voxtrot tee with grey jeans, and by the way he stands stagnant behind the bench, it seems almost as if he's hiding something from me.