First Sight

There is no such thing as love at first sight.

That is, until a boy haloed by the sunset asks for my name.

He's sharp edges and blinding smiles and dangerous gazes.

I can't keep eye contact with him.

I see an edge of a tattoo peaking out of his shirt. It tickles his neck when he laughs. I ask about it; he covers it with his jacket.

Soon I'm riding shotgun in his convertible, looking out across the endless ocean. The sun slips behind the sea.

He laughs at my unfunny jokes and tells me he loves the way my hair blows in the wind. I turn away to hide my blush.

The stars sprinkle the sky above us. I start to name constellations.

He asks how I know so many. I tell him that night's beauty draws me in. He is quiet after that.

There's nowhere that I need to be, nowhere that he needs to be; we end up on the beach.

He sits me down on a large piece of driftwood. I keep my ankles crossed, my back straight.

In comfortable silence, he starts to collect branches and twigs and logs.

I stand up to help. He says to sit down. I roll my eyes, march next to him and scoop branches into my arms. He asks me to sit down again, vainly. Our hands brush against one another's as we discuss the inner-workings of the universe.

At night he is soft words and whispered secrets and freckled cheeks. I watch his freckles dance in the moonlight as he speaks.

When we have enough branches, he begins to construct a bonfire. I return to the driftwood log. I sit, leaning back on my hands and admiring him.

He jokes about me goggling him. I know he doesn't mind.

A tiny flame from his pocket lighter ignites the bonfire.

He settles himself beside me. The light of the moon turns the ocean milky. The fire makes his face orange, inviting.

I reach for his hand. He takes mine without hesitation. I look into his eyes. He studies me in return.

He isn't hard to look at anymore.

We exchange ghost stories. His are better, scarier. I ask him where he heard them before. He tells me he made them up. I joke about nightmares to come. He holds me close.

He asks if I still want to know about his tattoo.

I nod.

He peels himself off of me, removes his jacket. From his elbow up, a night sky spills across his arm. Stars and moons. He lifts his shirt sleeve up. Artemis, the moon goddess, takes aim with her bow.

The fire dies down. Words get stuck in my throat. It's beautiful, wonderful, mystical.

He likes nighttime too, he admits. It's when he finds himself.

Underneath the full moon, I pull his face close to mine.

Our kiss is brighter than all the stars in the sky.

And it was indeed love at first sight.