Up until I was about sixteen years old, I absolutely hated him. That's just how it starts though, doesn't it? My regression of cold stares did not start because I found him at all attractive. No, it was because I got a means to escape him; a car. I fixed it up real nice like, you know? Scrubbed it out, tuned the engine, waxed it, changed the fluids, all the while he peskily peeked over my shoulders to ask just what it was I thought I was doing. I snorted and continued on with the spark plugs. I told him that trains ain't what they used to be.
Finally, I threw my bag in the trunk while the sun was setting on that old house. I must've been a bit rambunctious, or maybe he knew something of me, because he ran across his lawn barefoot; all bleary eyed and bed-headed from the evenings soft lavender lullabies. He tugged childishly on my shirt sleeve. I kept my mouth clamped shut as I slammed the trunk down and huffed to the driver's side door. He asked me not to leave yet.
"Don't you get it?" I practically snarled at 'em, "I'm not wanted here. I'm sick of those nights I gotta spend in that house. Everyone sees it, talking and ruminating; but not one of you do a thing about it. I ain't got nothing here".
"Then let me give you something," he said calmly, as if he was coaxing an animal out of ferocity. This only deepened my flair.
"Aw, screw off".
"Can I at least go with you?" he glossed down at me. There wasn't a hint of auburn in those deep brown eyes. He was paler at the beginning of summer rather than the end, unable to hide a five o'clock shadow this early on. Still subtly olive though. He was close enough that I could smell the flowers on him, subtle, not like the perfumes some of the people turn away from. In fact, his whole being was dusted with honeysuckle and cicada calls. The kind that put you to sleep under the oddly mystifying, disembodied train calls that rolled about the woods. Though an oily black, his lopsided hair grazed my memories of laying in the unkempt grass of the abandoned houses on our street. It was good- the memories I mean.
"Why?" I asked, still attempting to feign some sort of hostility. I felt silly now, standing out in the street. Where was I even planning on running to?
He drew in a soft sigh, not out of frustration- not at all, "Because I... hey hey now, quit that," he began to rub away the tears and running makeup with his thumbs, my face in his hands, "you'll cover up all those sun kisses, ya know?"
I nodded and sniveled a bit, red that he saw me like this. I was glad he did though. The fresh scent of lilac and petrichor washed the fits out of my lungs. He was a flower boy all right. Popping up just when winter starts to set into me; he came back every time, no matter how much I pruned his advances. Or set the flies on him. I guess the why wasn't important anymore. So I asked, "What was it you wanted to give me?"
"Let's not worry about that right now. Why don't you lock that old chevy up 'nd hold up with us? Just for a day or two, till your place quiets itself down a bit. Ya know my Ma adores you. She won't mind. We've got a guest room. Or maybe the barn out back would suit your fancy a bit more-"
"I couldn't ask for anything better," I cut him off.
"Now I know it's not as far from your... you know, as you would've liked".
"It's perfect," I smiled softly a bit, "I'm sorry I was crass before," I murmured, relishing the glowing feeling of his hands just a bit too much for my liking. I understood now what he'd been trying to give me, ever since my family came here.
The corners of his eyes wrinkled a bit as he grinned cheekily, "Let's get you inside then, Ma made catfish".
