Fall (Kevin/Joe)
Fiery leaves gust up around our feet as we wander through our spacious backyard. My hands are tucked tightly into the pockets of my jacket, my fingernails scraping across my palms.
It isn't cold enough yet to suggest retreating into the warmth of the house, and his hair in the dying light makes me think of sunshine through stained glass, so we continue, quietly crunching along through the trees, not really speaking, because there's no point.
I steal glances at him. The trees are beautiful, my excuse to spend this time with him, but God, he's gorgeous, his jaw strong, cheekbones fine, complexion softly olive. His eyes are my favorite part of him; they aren't exactly brown, and sometimes if I catch him in the right light, they shimmer a deep green that always reminds me of Christmas and roses.
Suddenly, it seems serenity doesn't suit him, and he kicks his foot into the carpet of red leaves, calling up a storm of rustling color. He laughs. It rings clearly through the brisk evening air, an echo of joy gliding around us. The leaves settle on his shoulders, stark against his black jacket. I can't help but reach over and brush them off. He turns that smile full of warmth and contentment in my direction, and I almost feel as if he's waiting for me to kiss him.
Of course, I don't. I just let myself smile back, feeling inadequate, because I could never match his magnificence. I leave him there combing leaves from his hair, and shuffle my feet along the ground, exposing the grass, ruining the perfection of that lovely orange-red carpet.
"Kevin."
There's something in the way he says my name that has me turning back, my heart clenching painfully, waiting for something, or nothing, unsure of which would be worse. I don't speak.
He's looking at me, his head tilted at a gentle angle, his hands cupping a tangle of leaves like water. Softly, he asks, "What are you thinking about?"
I still don't say anything, just reach up and pick a red remnant from his bangs, showing it to him before crumbling it between my thumb and finger.
His smile returns, and he gently blows the leaves at me. They swirl up near my face, pushed by his breath, and I hold my hands out, catching them as they flutter down around me. "It's a perfect day, Kevin." He says it like he's trying to convince me. He doesn't need to. I know. "In fact, it's a perfect season. I feel like falling in love."
I watch him dance off away from me, and follow him without a thought. I wonder if he heard that perfectly appropriate metaphor in his words. I figure he didn't, but he's definitely right. It's a perfect day to fall in love.
It isn't cold enough yet to suggest retreating into the warmth of the house, and his hair in the dying light makes me think of sunshine through stained glass, so we continue, quietly crunching along through the trees, not really speaking, because there's no point.
I steal glances at him. The trees are beautiful, my excuse to spend this time with him, but God, he's gorgeous, his jaw strong, cheekbones fine, complexion softly olive. His eyes are my favorite part of him; they aren't exactly brown, and sometimes if I catch him in the right light, they shimmer a deep green that always reminds me of Christmas and roses.
Suddenly, it seems serenity doesn't suit him, and he kicks his foot into the carpet of red leaves, calling up a storm of rustling color. He laughs. It rings clearly through the brisk evening air, an echo of joy gliding around us. The leaves settle on his shoulders, stark against his black jacket. I can't help but reach over and brush them off. He turns that smile full of warmth and contentment in my direction, and I almost feel as if he's waiting for me to kiss him.
Of course, I don't. I just let myself smile back, feeling inadequate, because I could never match his magnificence. I leave him there combing leaves from his hair, and shuffle my feet along the ground, exposing the grass, ruining the perfection of that lovely orange-red carpet.
"Kevin."
There's something in the way he says my name that has me turning back, my heart clenching painfully, waiting for something, or nothing, unsure of which would be worse. I don't speak.
He's looking at me, his head tilted at a gentle angle, his hands cupping a tangle of leaves like water. Softly, he asks, "What are you thinking about?"
I still don't say anything, just reach up and pick a red remnant from his bangs, showing it to him before crumbling it between my thumb and finger.
His smile returns, and he gently blows the leaves at me. They swirl up near my face, pushed by his breath, and I hold my hands out, catching them as they flutter down around me. "It's a perfect day, Kevin." He says it like he's trying to convince me. He doesn't need to. I know. "In fact, it's a perfect season. I feel like falling in love."
I watch him dance off away from me, and follow him without a thought. I wonder if he heard that perfectly appropriate metaphor in his words. I figure he didn't, but he's definitely right. It's a perfect day to fall in love.