Dancing on the Moon {h.s.}

8. My Bra Size Is The Only Thing You're Missing

After that last word, I decide it's time I look at him. I haven't looked at him properly.

He has emerald eyes. Maybe even a bit brighter. His hair is a warm, brown color and rests just above his shoulders. He splits his crown slightly to the right, emphasizing the curls on the right side more than the left. I could've mistook him for a surfer, but the skin on his nose isn't peeling, unlike mine. And his complexion resembles that of a man who is a native to a sunless nation. Looking down at his attire, I realized that last night, he wore a baby blue button-up, except it was buttoned down halfway his chest. He's done the same thing today, and this time I can see his tattoos.

There's a butterfly right under his breast, and two swallows mirroring each other on his chest. A '17BLACK' resides on his left collarbone, although I'm only assuming that because there's a see-through shirt covering it. A silver cross necklace adorns his neck, hanging low. I look back up at his face, and he gives me a playful smirk. I roll my eyes and get up to grab our orders. Once I sit back down, I watch him as he carefully blows onto the drink, sending the steam flying elsewhere.

"So, tell me a bit about yourself, Jayden. What intrigues you? What makes you cry? What makes you laugh?" he bombards me, as he takes a cautious sip from his latte. With an extra shot of espresso. I repeat his actions and he watches me patiently, awaiting a response.

I want to tell him the truth. I want to tell him everything about me. I want to spill it all like I did on all those once-blank canvases at home. I want to let it leak and drip from my mouth like I did on all those notebooks filled with songs I will fight to get on a record. I want to tell him the truth. Because maybe this boy cares. Maybe my mom or my dad or my sister never will. Maybe Boston will never understand. And maybe God has grown frustrated just like me, so He's planted this boy in my path. Maybe he's the one who will understand. But he's only here to study and leave. So I've got nothing to lose and no heart to give out.

"Uh, I surf," I start and he does a very English 'ah,' which makes me snort at the sound of it. "I read and write a lot."

"What do you read, sex-driven intellectual who takes not one, not two, but three drags?"

I sniff in defense and he just chuckles. "Kierkegaard, which you know. Thoreau. Because I like sucking the marrow out of life."

"Ah, yes. To live deliberately is the goal of many, I'm afraid."

"You only have so much time," I agree and he just nods so I continue. "Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Good one. He had this crazy ideology that you live your life more wholly when you view people in what they suffer, rather than what they do. It gives you perspective."

"Huh," he says simply. He seems to be listening so I keep going.

"I also love reading or listening to anything coming from MLK or John Perkins. These two changed how I view racial conflict, and I think they're very influential. Smart men. And somewhere along those lines, I read the diary entries of Saint Augustine."

"Isn't that the Hippo guy?"

"Saint Augustine of Hippo. So, yes. The Hippo guy."

He laughs at his lack of specification. "What do you write?" A lie gives me the puppy eyes, begging me to release it. And I'm tempted, to be honest. Just tell him you write book reviews. Something boring. Something so in the norm and regular. Because the instant you become too much to hold, they call you heavy. But looking at this boy, his face was eager. So eager that you could mistake him for an eight year old at the zoo, ready to see the pandas he had only seen in the National Geographic magazines his dad collects. And I'm tempted to tell the truth more than a lie.