August 7, 2002
Purple Suburbia
The wind screamed of autumn as we stood in the driveway, whipping through our thin summer clothing and driving me deeper into his arms. He told me last night that he couldn't get me close enough to him, that he wanted, almost, to take me in.
Above the stars are twinkling in a haze that reminds me all too poignantly that it is not autumn, that the leafy smell is only dried grass, and that it is August the 7, and I have but nine days left of true summer.
I remember Kelsi's mother telling us when we were all of fourteen and fifteen that all parties had to end. The same question remains on my lips.
Why?
I have this image of him in my mind, singing along to The Avalanches' 'Frontier Psychiatrist', then abruptly lifting my chin, looking into my eyes, and whispering, "You're crazier than a coconut!"
Today he and I ventured to the Newport Aquarium, where he made plenty of bad jokes about grilling and seasoning fish. I marveled at the turtles and cemented my vow of buying myself one as a pet for school. I am currently planning the interior decoration of the tank.
We wandered aimlessly about the levee afterwards, getting ice cream and sitting in the sunlight, retiring to Barnes & Noble where I immersed myself in the aisles. I eventually purchased a copy of Linda Goodman's Sun Signs, something I should've done ages ago. Her profiles are amazing, and dead the fuck on, as well.
So of course we ended up sitting on his couch reading opposing profiles of eachother, he quite shocked at the accuracy of the Scorpio description. He would laugh and wrinkle his brow, and my eyes would remain riveted on his face.
Who would've thought that I'd feel like this. Who would've thought that I'd just dive right in.
He makes me so comfortable.
Which brings us back to the driveway. My Barnes & Noble bag is clutched tightly in one hand, both arms wrapped around him. Over his shoulder I can see the stars and the street lamps and suburbia. Over his shoulder I can somehow see myself, can see us, it's like a storybook or a movie. Standing in his driveway next to the oilspot, clinging, eyes half closed and then open again, leaning back, maybe kissing, maybe just looking into eachother's eyes. I'm shivering but I don't want to get in the truck, don't want to let go, don't want to leave the purple sky and his furnace embrace and my shooting-star-straw-wrapper wishes.
He claims that he will teach me the art of making sure they come true.
He doesn't realize that he already has.
astera at 12:00 a.m.