The Creek
Her little brother is playing in the water, throwing rocks into it to scare frogs. As long as he's not hurting them, I won't stop him. She and I lean back in the grass, letting the sun warm us from the outside in. It was a long winter for us both. I've certainly had longer, but I don't know if she has. I haven't seen her one on one in over a year: there's been some occasion to keep us surrounded every time I've been in town. Now, her brother is nearby but he can't hear us over the sound of the rippling water. We speak softly anyhow.
"How do you know when you're in love?" she asks me.
I sigh. I think. I pull single blades of grass out of the lawn and flatten them between my thumb and forefinger. "How I know I'm in love isn't going to help you with your emotions. It won't make sense for you."
"What do you mean?" she asks, sitting up and turning toward me. I keep my body relaxed, though I'm never comfortable when conversations turn toward my private life.
"I mean," I said carefully, "that we are really different. So when I realized I was in love... even if your boy did the same thing, it wouldn't mean the same thing, you know?"
"Okay, so when did you realize it?"
I blushed. "I'd just gotten out of the shower. I had a towel on. He was sitting on the stairs. I sat a couple steps down from him. Just sat with him on the steps. He... he kissed the back of my neck. And I didn't run off to get dressed. I didn't stop him."
"You were sitting with some guy in just a towel?" she asked me, sort of accusingly.
"Yeah."
"And he kissed you."
"Yeah."
"And you realized you were in love?"
"No," I correct, watching her brother get his shorts muddy catching a newt, "that's when I realized I wasn't afraid of him. I realized I was in love with him when he brought me lapsang souchong in a clear glass mug while I was looking at a picture of Superman."
"You're right. I don't get it."
I shrug. "You don't have to."
"Do your parents know about this guy?"
"No."
"Are you going to tell them?"
"No."
"My parents would find out anyway."
I sigh, laying back in the grass and inspecting the blueness of the sky. "I think my parents have finally instituted a don't ask don't tell policy about my relationships. They ask me about the girls I live with a lot."
"Yeah?"
She finger combs her wavy black hair and twists it up into a bun that she secures with an elastic hair tie. She wraps her arms around her legs, keeping an eye on her brother, who has meandered farther upstream, and has started climbing flat rocks.
"Yeah. I think they decided they didn't want to know."
"Who is he, anyway?"
"He's wonderful. He's ridiculously attractive, though you might disagree. I think he's perfect. He likes watches."
"You didn't answer the question. And you hate watches. You won't wear one."
"Exactly, you see?"
"No."
"That's okay. So I was thinking about our parents."
She laughs. "Way to change the subject."
"No, I was thinking about when they were our age, you know?"
"Oh god, have you seen pictures? The hair cuts?"
"True story. And the tight pants? How'd our dads even manage to produce us after decades of that?"
"I know! Crazy people."
"Yeah."
"Yeah," she echoes.
I pause for a second for my dramatic finish, "Somehow I don't think our parents were the cool kids in highschool."
She starts laughing and we hear her brother yell, "Hey! You guys are sposed to be watching me!"
I assure him that he's well watched, and he climbs the bank with frogs in hand. Girlier than I ever was as a kid, I feign calm and demand he put them back, trying not to panic.
"It's okay, though," I say to her, trying to keep my fear of slimy things hidden from the eight year old in front of me.
"Yeah," she laughs, "We're not the cool kids either, really."
"Hey," I smile, flinching when he flicks mud at me, "Speak for yourself. I'm frickin awesome."
"How do you know when you're in love?" she asks me.
I sigh. I think. I pull single blades of grass out of the lawn and flatten them between my thumb and forefinger. "How I know I'm in love isn't going to help you with your emotions. It won't make sense for you."
"What do you mean?" she asks, sitting up and turning toward me. I keep my body relaxed, though I'm never comfortable when conversations turn toward my private life.
"I mean," I said carefully, "that we are really different. So when I realized I was in love... even if your boy did the same thing, it wouldn't mean the same thing, you know?"
"Okay, so when did you realize it?"
I blushed. "I'd just gotten out of the shower. I had a towel on. He was sitting on the stairs. I sat a couple steps down from him. Just sat with him on the steps. He... he kissed the back of my neck. And I didn't run off to get dressed. I didn't stop him."
"You were sitting with some guy in just a towel?" she asked me, sort of accusingly.
"Yeah."
"And he kissed you."
"Yeah."
"And you realized you were in love?"
"No," I correct, watching her brother get his shorts muddy catching a newt, "that's when I realized I wasn't afraid of him. I realized I was in love with him when he brought me lapsang souchong in a clear glass mug while I was looking at a picture of Superman."
"You're right. I don't get it."
I shrug. "You don't have to."
"Do your parents know about this guy?"
"No."
"Are you going to tell them?"
"No."
"My parents would find out anyway."
I sigh, laying back in the grass and inspecting the blueness of the sky. "I think my parents have finally instituted a don't ask don't tell policy about my relationships. They ask me about the girls I live with a lot."
"Yeah?"
She finger combs her wavy black hair and twists it up into a bun that she secures with an elastic hair tie. She wraps her arms around her legs, keeping an eye on her brother, who has meandered farther upstream, and has started climbing flat rocks.
"Yeah. I think they decided they didn't want to know."
"Who is he, anyway?"
"He's wonderful. He's ridiculously attractive, though you might disagree. I think he's perfect. He likes watches."
"You didn't answer the question. And you hate watches. You won't wear one."
"Exactly, you see?"
"No."
"That's okay. So I was thinking about our parents."
She laughs. "Way to change the subject."
"No, I was thinking about when they were our age, you know?"
"Oh god, have you seen pictures? The hair cuts?"
"True story. And the tight pants? How'd our dads even manage to produce us after decades of that?"
"I know! Crazy people."
"Yeah."
"Yeah," she echoes.
I pause for a second for my dramatic finish, "Somehow I don't think our parents were the cool kids in highschool."
She starts laughing and we hear her brother yell, "Hey! You guys are sposed to be watching me!"
I assure him that he's well watched, and he climbs the bank with frogs in hand. Girlier than I ever was as a kid, I feign calm and demand he put them back, trying not to panic.
"It's okay, though," I say to her, trying to keep my fear of slimy things hidden from the eight year old in front of me.
"Yeah," she laughs, "We're not the cool kids either, really."
"Hey," I smile, flinching when he flicks mud at me, "Speak for yourself. I'm frickin awesome."