Labda

The Boy must prevail. He knows this. The sun, that hangs heavy on the sky, about to recede into the unknowns of tomorrow, but, still sharp enough to drench him in the salty waters of his vesicles and cloud his sight in a kaleidoscope of color knows this. The wind and earth work together, conspiring to muddle and unsettle him even further with their fog of sand because they too know. They know the Boy, know what he wants and hopes to achieve by the day's end. They've watched him before more than once and as their own version of a cosmic joke, they pit themselves against him, wanting to take part in this Game.

The Boy understands this. As he walks along the gravel footpath that hangs off the side of the one-lane dirt road he is taking, each calculated step in his black flip flops kicking back some grit, he revels in it and welcomes this subtle challenge to dissuade him, wearing it as one would an imaginary cloak of courage, his chest slightly puffed out to accentuate the breadth of his shoulders resonating with his confident lazy strut. He runs the fingers of his right hand along the coarse stone wall that runs alongside him, searching for something, a feeling that he would never be able to put into words, but one that would feel rightly justified in this situation and others alike or unlike in its cracks and crevices and identify the shifts in tenacity that would mark the end of a house's perimeter.

This is the way the Game is played, the way others before him did and others to come should. The prize even more satisfying when the odds stack up against him in a bid to have it rigged.  And this is exactly how the Boy wants to play, with everything against him, his prevalence bringing him a deeper sense of accomplishment he is too immature to comprehend but too old to not see.

On cue, she avails herself at the opposite end. There is no hesitation. The right arm drops back to his side and his left arm rubs his face and hair in one upward sweeping motion before falling into place to play out his charismatic gait. He then visibly exhales and his demeanor subtly shifts, his attention silently refocusing on his mark. With the rules defined and the lines drawn, the Game begins.

She is in the company of an other but that only serves to excite the boy further, the Game pacing itself up to be a classic with the added challenge triggering an extra surge of adrenaline. His perception subconsciously erases the other from his sights after he gives her a split-second look-over, as he gets more engrossed into this episode. As the distance that separates them grows shorter, the Boy can tell he has made a good mark. The belle has been kissed by the sun, her choice of dress alluding to her defiant and youthful nature. She wants to be seen, wants him and others to look, to admire and to ogle, and in the end come away wishing that she would spare them an ounce of her attention, yet still know that that would never happen. But still, the Boy is adamantly laid back, his nerves showing their steel in spades . She is tall, almost as tall as he is, and her fullness reiterates the splendor of youth she possesses but he finds himself wishing that she be older than she looks, a reflexive preference that has served him well before but not a deal breaker, never a reason not to parley. And still, they draw closer.

And closer they draw, another level beginning, its rules, complicated as they are simple, simple as they are complicated. The Boy values this prelude, finding solace and stability in the false sense of serenity that is fostered by this self-directed conversational stream of consciousness, which he draws up in every variation of said situation to ratify made objectifications. Drawing nearer, he thrills himself on being able to look without looking, as he does now, and emerge with her likeness in mind to savor in the split-second that it lasts, but, like chardonnay tasted, mull over even after it dissipates, both, always leaving you pining for more.

She fades away in waves, a blur, a foggy mural of maya with shades of sable and dashes of veldt in the stead of the figures that stand before him. In it, she appears sfumato, her face too far to clearly make out but not too far to not see,her head adorned in an ordered array of colored locks that fall to her chest, obscuring parts of her face, her clothes, a palette of two tones that fade into each other, leaving her endless.