A layer of paint on the stage;

            She turned her head curiously and leaned her chin warily on her palm, narrowing her eyes. He dipped his head unknowingly, his fingers growing raw against the paper while attempting to trace the image before him. No matter how hard he tried, her form couldn’t be captured. It seemed like every time he’d draw a particular body part, she’d shift and become perfectly illuminated in a whole new light. The surrounding grass was littered with scraps of his effort, none of them doing her justice and he sighed irately, glancing up for inspiration.

            Their eyes met and his heart stopped fearfully. Taking a deep breath, he found her staring at him with an expression of utmost inquisition. She was exercising all of her control not to grab the drawing from his messy hands and examine his work appraisingly.

            “Hi.” The word barely touched her lips as she mouthed it out to him.

           He flashed her a boyish smirk, looking down again as his dark fingers brushed over the curve of her jaw on his parchment. The material scraped as she moved next to him and he smirked, having caught what he was after. She tilted her light head, watching idly as his hands moved anxiously across his paper.

            “I’m Brenton,” He murmured, not looking up and she bit her lip, nodding knowingly.

            “I’m,” She started and faltered as he lifted one hand silencing her. He grinned. She had the most attractive voice he’d ever heard. That was it. He knew it in that instant. This girl was going to be his wife. And at that point, he had to fight back the urge to ask her to marry him on the spot. It was quite an imposition.  

            “Perfect.”  She rolled her eyes and he grinned. Brenton prepared himself. This was it. This was the part where he was going to tell this girl that he was madly in love with her, despite the fact that they had only just met. And that would be the part where she would jump wholeheartedly into his open arms, relaying her undying love for him. The move he was about to make would’ve forced Romeo take a step back in admiration.

            He stood up, brushing grass off his dark jeans and he ran a hand through his shaggy hair, extending a hand out toward her. She glanced at it, following his long fingertips up and meeting his eyes once more, elevating one flawless eyebrow. He smiled charismatically.

            “Will you hold this while I go for a walk?” He inquired adoringly and she scoffed, sliding the drawing into her lap, toying with it carelessly.

            “Why are you doing this?” She asked, shrugging her light shoulders and he knitted his brows together, entirely perplexed. She shook her head, disbelievingly. “Don’t you remember?” She prodded and he retracted his hand and shoving it guiltily in his pocket.

            “Have I hit on you before?” He asked, stabbing in the dark. “How’d that go for me?” She tightened her jaw agitatedly, getting up.

            “You’re an asshole,” She muttered, crumpling his sketch in her small hands and he sighed, grieving over his loss. She threw it at him hastily and stormed dramatically off, as women often do. He sniffed, leaning over to pick up the wad of wasted effort and glanced over his shoulder at her retreating form.

            “Who is that girl?” He murmured.

            Rainy Nolan. His best friend, Tommy, had informed him later that day while blowing nosily into his harmonica during English. A practice that had been heavily frowned upon by their teacher.

            “It’s for the band,” He justified. Tommy and Brenton had created the band back in kindergarten. Tommy tripped over his own gawky feet and crashed headlong into Brenton, full of apologies and offering to make it up to him by letting him in on the band. Brenton shook his adolescent little head and said, “I can’t thing; I have a lithp.” But it was okay back then because everyone was awkward. Tommy giggled, showing his missing front teeth, and tripped purposely into the next boy. He held out his tiny hand, saying. “You look like singing material.” And that, as they say, was that.

            Brenton threw his head back, laughing at his efforts. Despite the fact that the band sucked beyond all recognition, Tommy had kept the idea of it instilled for years because ‘girls love musicians’. However, neither of the boys had ever had a girlfriend or girl friends, something Brenton had accredited mainly to the seven-five factor. People, he explained, generally look for someone below their physical attractiveness because that way they always have a chance. And Brenton was a twelve. A fourteen had simply yet to come along. Until Rainy Nolan.

            “Hey, is she new here?” Brenton whispered between lessons. Tommy licked his lips, chapped from his newfound talent and clucked his tongue against his teeth, thoughtfully, clearly having forgotten the subject at hand.

            “Who?” He asked dimly and Brenton dropped his shoulder, staring off dreamily.

            “Rainy Nolan,” He murmured, letting the words drop from his lips like sugarcoated sparkles. Tommy groaned, clearly apathetic. 

            “She loves me,” Brenton promised his friend, patting his shoulders sympathetically. “She just doesn’t know it yet.” He ran a hand through his messy hair and Tommy shook his head disappointedly.

            “She’s in the directory.” He mumbled, shoving his instrument deftly in his back. “Just…,” He swallowed, trying to get just the right wording. “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

~

        “What the hell are you doing?!” She shoved her head out of the window, screeching. He smiled sheepishly at her and pawed at the ground, embarrassedly. He stretched one lanky arm up to the stereo above his head, changing the track. She yelled his name out viciously. He grinned his lopsided smile and tuned the volume.

            “I’m serenading you!” He called back simply, as if it was obvious. She rolled her dark eyes, leaning further out and pursing her riled lips. He lost his footing slightly, slipping and sliding into the mud. His preppy shoes got stuck and he slithered out of them easily, his white socks falling lazily into the dirt.

            “It’s raining, you idiot!” She yelled and he waved her off. He set the radio on the sopping grass and sat down, patting it on the antennae, happily. She crossed her rigid arms. He looked at her cheerfully from under his lashes. “What happens now?” She yelled anxiously. Thunder roared angrily above them, but his gaze did not waver. He smiled boyishly, pulling his zipper up, insolating himself. He exhaled, letting out a little gray cloud.

            “We wait,” He said smoothly. She scoffed, then put her hands on her hips agitatedly, the way she always did when someone was wasting her time. She left the window, pursuing other tasks. She crashed on her princess bed with a plop, pulling out a book from her nightstand, taking out the ticket stub bookmark and starting to read. He didn’t move. She wrote in her diary. He stayed put. She cleaned her room. He didn’t shift. She went back to the window. He was still there. She shook her stiff head, and gave into it all.

            “What are you waiting for?” She called down and he smirked winningly, as though he nonchalantly knew it was coming all along.

            “For you to fall in love with me.” She growled, putting on her overcoat and trudging outside. He jumped up like a happy child, causing the stereo to shift and he stumbled, laughing elatedly at his own clumsiness. The front door creaked out and his ears perked up, he grinned giddily. She glared at him from behind the screen door and crossed her arms over her chest heatedly.

            “You know I hate you, right?” She stated matter-of-factly and he rolled his eyes, cheerfully, pushing it off.

            “Minor detail,” He nodded, beaming pleasantly at her. He looked her over, taking in her livid demeanor. “And I was going to tell you that you look pretty, but seeing that you’re upset with me, I’m going to raise it to beautiful.” She swore under her breath, putting her hand on her hip, clearly annoyed.

            “This is bordering on stalking, you know,” She informed him and he grinned cheerily, taking a seat on her porch. He leaned back on his damp arms, obviously enjoying himself.

            “You look gorgeous when you find me repulsive,” He replied back, crossing his gangly legs. She scoffed in return.

            “I must be a constant ten, then, ” She said scornfully, and he shook his dripping head, green eyes wide.

            “A fourteen. Always a fourteen!” He promised brightly. She slammed the door at that, returning to her room. He smiled inwardly; he headed back for his stereo and shoes, pondering just often other couples spent time together, because if it was less than fifteen minutes a day, he had everyone else beat.

~

          This was getting ridiculous. He’d taken far too kindly to pursuing her. And it was reaching a new level of infuriating.

           She groaned, her head shooting up distractedly. If life were less abstract, she was quite certain that he would have drills in his eye sockets. He bore holes into the back of her head. No one would be surprised if he carried a notebook measuring his current level of creeptasticness.

          “What are you doing?” She shot out finally, entirely exasperated. He grinned and casually helped himself to a seat. She grumbled an obscenity under her irritated breath. “This is a library, you know. You’re supposed to be reading,” She informed him in the clipped, matter-of-fact tone. The one she used when she was speaking to a child or a very persistent and less than stand-up young man.

        “I am reading,” He replied in the same manner. He fumbled in his guitar case, whipping out a beaten up copy of a romance novel. He cracked it open, smoothing out his dog-eared page, immersing himself.

       “What are you…?” He held up a pointer finger, shushing her, and he smiled with his already wrinkled eyes.

        “This is a library, you know. You’re supposed to be reading,” He notified her in a strictly business voice before he resumed his position.  She stared at him, absolutely incensed. He glanced at her out of his peripheral vision before flipping the page of his smut and continuing on. He peeked from under his lashes and averted his gaze, returning it quickly. She was still glaring. He folded the corner of his page.

       “What are you doing?” He wondered, setting his book down entirely pleased with himself. She opened her glossed mouth to speak before shutting it—finding no real explanation. He grinned cheekily. “Are you watching me?” He asked, sounding morbidly intrigued, as though this had reached a comfortable level of perverseness.

       “I…,” She narrowed her eyes and shot him the dirtiest look she could muster. He leaned back on the hind legs of his chair nonchalantly. “You watched me first!”

      He furrowed his brow questioningly. “This is a library.” He announced and she nodded, clearly not understanding.  “You told me to read.” She frowned, eyes still narrow and lips still tight. She held onto her death stare. “I was reading.”

       “You were staring,” She grumbled, eyes open as though trying to emphasize her point and he shook his messy head vigorously.

      “Reading,” He promised, resuming position. She studied him irately for a long pause before she finally slammed her book shut, leaning in, as though preparing to impart a great secret upon him. He tipped eagerly toward her.

      “You need to stop,” She whispered firmly and he squinted at her through his dark eyes, as though trying to see if another angle would help him understand the situation.

      “Why?” He whispered innocently. She shook her head sighing loudly and falling back and way from him.

       “Because I hate you.” She was packing up now and he watched frantically. He grabbed her hand across the table and her head spun at the contact. “What are you doing?” She hissed dangerously.

      “Don’t go,” He pleaded and she nearly faltered before sliding her chair out and away from him. He frowned, running an anxious hand through his hair. “Why do you hate me?” He wondered aloud, the statement previously never bothering him. They were meant for each other, after all. She seemed to ponder this for a second, tapping her chin pensively.

     “I don’t want to play this game. Go flirt with someone else,” She suggested, clutching her books against her chest defensively. He laughed, a choked out sound.

     “Rainy,” He said, disbelievingly. He looked imploringly at his thirteen now, because a fourteen wouldn’t believe the rumors. They said those musicians were trouble, especially the persistent ones. She cleared her throat and he got up, mainly a reason to be close to her. She stepped back. He licked his lips, hoping for the right words to appear miraculously in front of him. Nothing. He looked at her from under his lashes, hoping she’d somehow understand everything he couldn’t express.

       “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She said finally, leaving swiftly. He didn’t hesitate for a second before chasing after her. She heard his scattered footsteps and quickened her pacing, shouting behind her, the sound bouncing through the empty halls. “I told you! I don’t—“

       His hand reached toward her, covering her mouth, compassionately. She slapped his hand away.

     “What are you doing?” She hissed, taking a step away. That was her phrase, he noted. The one she said whenever he was doing something that she absolutely adored, but would never admit because of the speculation. He’d only just realized such during the chase scene.

      “I’m making you talk to me.” He informed her cheerfully. He took a few predatory steps toward her, backing her into the wall. And then he took one more step, leaving no room for escape. She lifted her hands in front of her in a futile attempt to shield herself from him. He, in response, ran his doting hands up her arms, encircling her wrists. He smirked, moving her hands and pinning them to the wall on either side of her head, leaning in and towering amiably over her.

     “Now,” he breathed. “Talk to me.” It was certainly a demand, but a non-threatening one.

      “No,” She replied, a bit on the bold side for someone pinned between a brick wall and an      undeniably handsome boy.

     “No?” he questioned. He raised his perceptive eyebrow.

    “No,” She repeated, her voice losing its confidence.

     “Need I remind you that you are not in much of a position to be disobedient,” he smirked and she scoffed, conceding. 

    “Fine. What do you want to talk about?” She asked, giving up, trying to ignore the fact that his thumb was exploring her wrist innocently. He caught her eye and winked charismatically.

    “Just talk,” he insisted quietly.

     Her weight shifted embarrassedly. “Um,” She sighed, glancing up, hoping for help. He waited patiently. “I know what handcuffs feel like.” She offered lamely, trying to twist her wrists out of his grip.

   “You want me to let go of you?” he asked, his questioning eyes wide.

     “Please,” She said politely, something that always helped her get her way at home.  He shook his head, lacing his taunting fingers through hers.

      “You’re lying,” he whispered. He leaned even closer and he caught her eye, inquiringly. “Say that again. Tell me you want me to let go.” He murmured in that same knowing voice that he always seemed to use just before she caved. 

     She was stuck. They both knew that she was not a good liar, and her current condition was not helping. His dark eyes bore through her, wordlessly.

     “Please, I’m just,” She sighed. “I’m so tired.” She whimpered, avoiding his command. She wiggled her hands, trying to weasel out of his grasp, and his grip tightened, bringing her hands from the wall to his face.

     “And I’m not?” He offered sarcastically. “I’m in love with someone who hates me. Doesn’t that sound exhausting?” He asked, breathing out on her insensible fingertips. “I want to be able to tell you that this is your last chance to have me. That after this moment, you’ll be alone.” 

      He shook his troubled head, her widened eyes going unnoticed. “If I could give up loving you,” He trailed off, glancing up, as though remembering a distant memory. “Everything would be so much easier…” He exhaled loudly, rubbing his temples. “But I can’t.” He muttered agitatedly.

     “I’m sorry,” She said uncomfortably, rubbing his cheek cautiously. He leaned into her hand.

     “I’m really not.” He replied with a smirk and she frowned, dropping her hand and sliding out of his grasp.

     “I don’t know why I even bother.” She grumbled, waving him off with her hand and he caught it quickly, pulling her back to him.

      “Because you love me?” He suggested and she sneered, rolling her eyes and putting her hand on her hip, shaking her head. “Say it,” He ordered and she laughed.

     “You’re complicating things.” She reprimanded him and he smiled cheerfully, kissing her hand.

    “It’s not exaggeration.” He emphasized his point with a quick kiss, a surprise on both their parts. His, because he wasn’t aware he’d had the courage for such an act. Hers, because of the butterfly factor. She bit her lip with a small, feminine sigh, determined to fight this.

     “I don’t understand,” She lied quickly. His dark eyes glanced anxiously around.

     “You care about me?” He stated, while making it sound like a question. She threw her bag offhandedly over her shoulder and rolled her eyes obsequiously at him. She tapped her foot that way she did when she couldn’t make up her mind. They both knew she wanted it. He crossed her path, narrowing his upset eyes and clenching his jaw boyishly.

       “I don’t.” She voiced the words like lines in a script. He closed his eyes, shaking his head and mumbled something under his disconcerted breath. He turned resolutely toward her.

     “Say it.” He half-ordered, half-pleaded. She sighed loudly, stressing her uncertainty. “Say the words.” He commanded from his convoluted place.

      “Maybe.” She replied, side stepping him, he slid his troubled way into her stiletto’d path. She grimaced, barely meeting his eyes.  

      “I need to hear them.” He explained childishly. She stood her ground rigidly and breathed out the black plague.

      “I don’t love you.”

       He ran a hand through his messy hair and she wrinkled her nose the way she did whenever something was particularly out of place. He shook his head disappointedly and averted his gaze, slipping out of the way.

      “Liars go to hell.”

He waltzes in from the window, tumbling back down,

           smiles and sweet nothings fill the air and he grins

                 goofily in that way that used to be saved for special occasions

“How was your day?” He murmurs, then realizes his mistake, shaking his head.

                                                   “Lie to me.”

“I went swinging in the park. I shopped for antiques. I swam in the creek. I saw a play. I ran a mile. I smoked a bowl. I wrote a song. I love you.”

“Liar,” He chides. “you don’t smoke.” He smirks, sighing into my pillows,

       his feet dangle off my bed, since he’s grown both out of it and me

              and I hesitate, adding to the three years already

“When will I fall out of love with you?” I wonder aloud

                 he shrugs, fixing his hair. Preparing himself for the world outside,

                               one vastly different from my own.

“You’ll have a defining moment, where I suddenly become less appealing.”

       “Maybe under fluorescent lighting.” He winks, charismatically.

              “Or I’ll fall for you.” He adds, glancing back.

                     “Don’t wait up for me.”  He means tomorrow night.

                               “We both know I will.” I mean forever.