Youth

Two

"Are you ready?"

The words slipped easily from her small lips, torn and red from the fraying nerves that had nibbled away at the grin there. She spoke as soon as the door had opened wide enough, before I had chance to take my hand off the handle, and I barely had time to recollect my breath.

There was something electrifying about her, something that sparked at the tips of her long, black hair, curling at the small of her back and kissing her collarbones, that short-circuited at the pink of her cheeks. She always looked flushed, like she'd just run a marathon to meet you, and her eyes were infinitely sharp, suggesting she knew something you weren't allowed to be privy to and she held that indefinitely against you. Her jeans were rolled up, showing the pale skin of her ankles where a silver dolphin dived on blue string, her striped cardigan buttoned only half way up her chest. The air around her felt like it was on fire, fuelled by the thrill of an untouchable summer, where anything could happen.

We were similar in that respect. I often felt that happen to the air around myself.

"Ready for what, may I ask?"

She let herself in, though perhaps it was partially by habit that had me stepping back to let her through. Atle stopped ahead of me, spinning around. We stared at one another. Then, within the same heartbeat, she launched herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and squeezing tightly, like she would never let go. I can't say I would mind if we'd stayed like that forever.

When she pulled away, Atle was smiling. She was all teeth and dimples.

"I've missed you," she told me sincerely.

I pulled her in for another hug, my arms wrapped around her waist and I could feel her knees wobbling because she was standing on her tip toes to rest her chin on my shoulder.

"I missed you too."

Sometimes, the doorbell will ring and I will entertain just a brief lapse in judgement and imagine that when I swing my front door wide open, she will be standing there, wearing her sixteen years carelessly, looking out at the hills with that wistfully astute look in her eyes. She'll turn to me after a moment or two, entirely on her own time, and flash that bright, toothy smile. My heart will flutter. She'll make a droll comment about how terribly boring I've become and pick a thread loose on the sweater I've worn for the fifth consecutive day. I will step back, after a second of speechlessness because everything I've ever hoped to say in two decades to her will be stolen right from the tip of my tongue, and invite her in. She declines. She tells me there's nothing for me inside, that life was made to be lived and nothing short of that will do. I tell her she's crazy. She laughs.

"You're early," I told her, finally letting her go and the scent of raspberries and earth grew faint.

"I'm never early," replied Atle defiantly. "I'm on time."

She spun on her heel, carrying on down the cramped corridor, arms spread wide so her fingers brushed both the wall and the bannister of the staircase. She walked like a tight-rope walker, constantly teetering on the edge of falling.

I scoffed but followed her regardless, kicking the odd shoe she had hopped over to the side. "Since when have you ever been on time before? I thought I'd have another twenty minutes at least."

Atle threw herself onto the settee, regarding me with wide, dark eyes. "The audacity!" she cried. "I'm a changed woman, Imani. Getting places on time is very dear to me now."

I sat on the chair arm. The council house I lived in with my mum had been home for as long as I could remember. It was certainly a dingy place, with kitchen and living room practically situated on top of one another. The walls were all the same musty cream and the upholstery was a deep green. There was a single photograph of some countryside mirage above the little box television in the corner of the room. There used to be stuff everywhere: my dad's hi-vis jacket forgotten over the back of a chair; shoes strewn across the carpet; potted plants collected on the coffee table and by the fireplace and in front of the backdoors; my sketchbook abandoned on the floor; Mosi's school bag by his feet as he laid across the settee, laughing at my mum's admonishments as though they were some kind of playful joke-