falling short {arsen/mew}

[Python]

[presto] i     d o n t     n e e d     y o u r     p a s t [/presto]
[presto] e i g h t e e n [/presto]	[presto] A R S E N   R A U V He stared at a ceiling speck for approximately five minutes. It didn’t budge until he imagined it scuttling across the plaster like a beetle, but even then it was only his imagination triggering its movement in his head. It actually remained stationary the whole time, yet somehow his mind could create illusions. Real people with personalities and names and lives, and then it would throw them in his face like a hat trick. His blood had been purged of the drug for over a year now, but it left permanent scars in his body, invisible but consequential. His left arm was draped over the pillow above his head because if he dared lift his right arm that high it would burn where the limb met the socket. He didn’t understand why. Was it nerve damage? Muscle damage? Imaginary pain? If so, how do you cure something that doesn’t exist? Arsen yawned and abandoned his cocoon of blankets. It was stuffy in his room; he could feel heat seeping in from the outside, threatening to exhaust his mood too early in the morning. Dad was waiting for him in the kitchen, a mug of coffee in his hand. Arsen shuffled to the pantry and poured himself a bowl of cereal without milk. They were all out of milk. ”How was school yesterday? I never got a chance to ask,” he said, and it was evident in his upbeat tone that he was feeling chipper. The polar opposite of Arsen, who was already aggravated about eating dry, plain cereal. It was the minor things that really tipped him over the edge. ”It was okay. The usual,” Arsen muttered, prodding the flakes of wheat with the tip of his spoon. He should’ve toasted a bagel instead. ”Did you work last night?” Right. Dad didn’t know because he had been busy, doing whatever it was procurers did when they weren’t paying their employees. ”Yeah, until closing.” His dad nodded and took another large gulp of black coffee. Arsen could never stomach something so bitter. Energizing or not, it tasted like ass. He didn’t have enough experience with asses to confirm the resemblance, but he had his suspicions. ”Do you mind picking up some groceries after breakfast? We’re all out of milk and vegetables,” he said. I noticed. ”What kind of vegetables?” He shrugged. ”Pick your favorite.” And then he dismissed himself and disappeared beyond the front door with a smile and a grateful “Thank you!” That was one good thing about Arsen’s dad; he wasn’t an asshole, even after all of the shit they endured. Neither of them were whole, but at least one of them could pretend they were. After washing down the disappointing breakfast with a glass of apple juice, he finished his morning routine in front of the mirror and changed into an outfit that wouldn’t suffocate him in this warm weather. His neighborhood was its usual boring and disturbing self. He passed by two little boys on the playground and heard one of them call the other a “little bitch.” Neither of them regarded Arsen as he walked by with a wallet in his side pocket. Good, they weren’t one of the little thieves that roamed the area. Stupid brats. The market by the District Square was packed full of busy bodies. He hesitantly skirted the crowds and tried to find the vendor he was looking for, the ones with the freshest milk that was always next to the cartons of ice cream. He definitely needed some ice cream after that dissatisfying breakfast. He was using his own money anyway, so dad wouldn’t mind. He worked a late shift tonight from five until close. He hadn’t planned any daily activities to pass his time. Exploring the shops seemed like a decent way to waste time, if only there weren’t so many noisy people shoving their way past one another. He tried to squeeze himself between two people to turn a familiar corner when one of them stepped back, essentially sandwiching him between a woman with insane piercings and a guy with a sweaty back. He grimaced in disgust and wriggled his way out. The shop he was looking for was just down the street. He squinted beneath blaring sunlight and walked with his hands in his pockets until someone rushed in front of him, not at all minding where they were stepping. She shouldered his chest and forced his torso backwards. There wasn’t enough time to remember his rule: Don’t step back on your left leg. It was instinct. He had to catch himself somehow. Except he didn’t. As he stepped backward on both feet a hot flare ignited in his left hip. He yelped and clutched at his thigh, his leg turning to hot gelatin, toppling him backward until he hit the cement. He waited for the familiar ache of flesh against concrete. [/presto]	[presto] d i s t r i c t t w o [/presto]
[presto] o n e   b r i g h t   m o m e n t   i s   a l l   i   a s k [/presto]

[gamemaker kelsier]

M E W

district two

sixteen

male

Come back to this world
and take your heart
off of the higher shelf.

It's a Saturday.

That's lucky because if it weren't, at this point I'm certain that I'd be late for school. I don't know how I forgot myself this time. I worked hard to pay attention but sometimes when I'm walking my feet fall into a rhythm so steady that I am lulled into a false sense of security. Then my head goes away, off somewhere, I never quite remember where. It's like dreaming but in the day, there's a word for that. What was it again?

Daydreaming.

I was daydreaming again.

It's been happening more and more lately and I'm not really sure how to stop it. Sometimes I'm just walking along, minding my own business when a daydream hits me like a train. It's sort of like Haven and his nightmares. However, my daydreams are never unpleasant, not really. Well, sometimes. Every now and then my daydreams include me thinking about how small and insignificant I am in the universe but that's not all the time.

I started out at work last night, that I know. We were watching, all sheep in wolves' clothing as some men loaded Ricky's diamonds onto a train bound for the Capitol. They load the trains at night because there is less chance of someone stumbling upon us and trying to swipe a diamond or two from us. I was paired with Louisa and she'd brought me a coffee but I wasn't really enjoying it because she'd gotten some cigarette ash in it and the sweet taste was ruined. I didn't want to seem ungrateful so I drank it anyway and I know I burned my tongue. Only because Louisa told me by burning her own.

Anyway, last night there was no action. I leaned against the wall like a tightly coiled spring for four hours, with no attempted robberies whatsoever, once again. Sometimes I think Ricky's too paranoid. No one is going to steal from the Capitol, no one in their right mind anyway. I don't mind though. I got paid last night and the money is still heavy in my pocket, a big wad of cash for the security detail that I do, President Snow's face staring grimly up at me from every hundred dollar bill.

I know that the plan from there was to go home but somehow my feet took me the opposite direction and I ended up at the fence line. Uncertain as to where to go, I decided that my best bet was to continue to follow the fence line until I found somewhere familiar but then I forgot to look out for landmarks and somehow I ended up wandering around since two in the morning. I wonder if Haven's awake yet. I'm sure he'll be hungry but I'm not there to make him eggs and bacon like I do every Saturday morning. I bet he's worried about me.

Haven worries a lot, ever since mom died a lot of things scare him.

At around nine in the morning, I followed the sounds of shouting and voice and made it to the market square, entering from the opposite direction that I normally do. It was a relief to find somewhere familiar at that point, my feet were dead tired and I was starting to feel the tiniest bit anxious, as if it were possible to walk out of the district entirely. It's impossible though, that's why there are fences in the first place.

I still panic a bit sometimes.

In familiar surroundings, an easy smile grows across my face and the money in my pocket nearly burns a hole through the fabric of my pants. I decide that it might be nice to treat Haven to an ice cream, I don't buy it often but he's always loved the chocolate flavour that this little shop down a side street does and it'll make him less upset when I arrive home nearly ten hours late.

I walk carefully, always aware of the room I take up and in this teeming crowd I can be a bother. I'm tall though and it's always been easier to get through crowds because of it. People tend to move out of your way when you're built the way I am, as if just because I have some muscle and a tall frame I'm going to punch people in the face if they don't move. It's quite the opposite really, I'm so passive that if someone were to shove me I'd probably apologize.

The crowd is thick today and as I'm walking I notice a little ways in front of me that someone is falling. That's no good, in a Saturday crowd like this one, they are certain to be trampled. As I continue forwards, I reach out absentmindedly, hooking an arm beneath the armpit and around the shoulder of the 'fallee'. "Steady there," I say cheerfully as I pull him back into a standing position. With him righted, I slip back into the flow of the crowd, in a hurry to make my purchase and get home.

[Python]

[presto] i     d o n t     n e e d     y o u r     p a s t [/presto]
[presto] e i g h t e e n [/presto]	[presto] A R S E N   R A U V His bones didn’t throb. Instead of suffering a blow against a hard surface he felt something snake through his armpit and drag him to his feet. He squeezed his left thigh in an effort to numb the burns with pressure, but his efforts were always for naught. ”Steady there,” said a man’s voice. It was only a stranger kind enough to catch him before his fall, an unfamiliar face that distracted him from the knots of pain unfurling in his hip. It was a dull ache by the time he muttered, ”Thanks,” and the stranger merged with the crowd. It was odd for someone to actually interrupt one of his falls. People normally didn’t have the reflexes or the shits to give. He must’ve been in his way. Arsen shrugged and rubbed the side of his pelvis. Recuperation periods were quick, and he lingered in the crowd only for a moment to recall where he was and relocate the sign of interest. Milk and ice cream and vegetables, that was why he was here, and if anyone tried to shove him again he would be sure to climb right to his feet and shove them back. Even if it killed his left leg. He always hated it when it was somebody else’s fault. Falling on his ass because of a crippled leg – a scar nobody could see until it was too late – was pitiful. His muscles would turn to jello because of the pain and then his knee would wobble, and then he would collapse. It always hurt too much for him to prevent a fall. One would think he would be adjusted to it by now, but it was never any easier. It felt like hellfire in his flesh. He patted his right pocket to feel for the bulge of his wallet, then walked inside. --- Two days later, he collapsed again. It was another scorching day. There was a whisper of a breeze here and there to soothe the skin. It was even more relieving to be lounging by the fountain in the park, perched on the edge with his sketchbook in his lap. There was a flock of pigeons gathering by a bench, awaiting food despite its vacancy. Their coos were cute and obnoxious. He watched their little heads bob curiously, and tried to draw as many of them as he could after he sketched a detailed image of the empty bench. Moms often brought their children here to take a rest and feed birds. Around sunset there were usually crows instead of pigeons, and they weren’t as popular. Ducks were popular, but they were over by the pond. Sometime a goose would show up, but it was never wise to feed them. He remembered himself as a little boy at the pond when he hadn’t yet learned the difference between a duck and a goose. When tried to feed a goose it reared and chased him until he latched to his mother’s hip in terror. He didn’t mind geese all that much now, but he definitely wasn’t going to fuck with them. He ended up finishing his drawing with thirteen pigeons. Some pecked at the ground, others stared at their creator as if searching his soul for bread crumbs. The shading was a bit off because the sun was trying to blind him, but overall it was a decent job. Hopefully a customer would never ask him to ink a pigeon into their skin. His craving for a bag of peanuts compelled him to abandon his perch and cross the street. He knew there was a vendor nearby that sold cheap snacks, he just had to find the familiar sign since he couldn’t remember the name. He approached one of the buildings with a sign posted out front that said “Sale!” but then he skimmed it and the prices didn’t sound like much of a sale. His face scrunched in disapproval. He pivoted on his left foot and absent-mindedly stepped off the curb, forgetting that there was a drop off. The unexpected change in elevation made him stumble forward, but before he could face plant into the concrete his arms collapsed against something soft and sturdy. [/presto]	[presto] d i s t r i c t t w o [/presto]
[presto] o n e   b r i g h t   m o m e n t   i s   a l l   i   a s k [/presto]

[gamemaker kelsier]

M E W

district two

sixteen

male

Come back to this world
and take your heart
off of the higher shelf.

I left the house three hours ago on a mission to find some shoes for Haven. His are old and falling apart and after last weeks pay going to paying the bills, I still had a bit of money left over. With it, there was the choice of buying wood polish for my training staff that I was in sore need of or buying Haven shoes. When he showed me that he could stick his fingers through the front where the canvas on his old ones were worn away, that settled it.

Unfortunately, on my way into the shopping area of the district, I managed to take a wrong turn and ended up in the slums instead. I got held up there when an older man asked me to help him find his dog and because the older man was using a cane, I agreed. However, I thought that the dog was named Ringo when it was really named Donald and so I found the wrong dog and then I had to find that dog's owner and so I knocked on nearly every door in the slums. The owner was very glad when I brought their dog back though, they had thought that someone had eaten it. I ended up finding Donald in the owner's garden. He was sleeping in the shade, I suppose the heat had gotten to him.

In the end, the older man was grateful and pointed me in the right direction and I ended up in the shopping district, where I wanted to be.

However, I was distracted once again while walking past an old book shop. I've never been an avid reader, books aren't really my thing. I get bored when there are no pictures to illustrate the words I am reading and my brain is slow so I can't think up things in my head for pictures. Lately I've been trying to be better though because I don't want Haven to realize that his older brother is stupid. I want him to continue looking up to me and so I have to become smarter and grow like him.

I ended up purchasing a fictional book about outer space and humankind landing on the moon. I bought it because it was only a dollar and I suppose that's because everyone knows that we can't really go to the moon, hovercrafts would never make it that far up. I thought it would be an interesting read anyway and even if I could not understand it, Haven might enjoy it.

Only then did I finally begin my shopping for Haven.

I couldn't find a pair of shoes that were priced fairly enough. It took an hour or two and even then I had to bargain with the shop owner and I'm not as good at bargaining as mom was. I just think about the fact that the shopkeepers have families to take care of too and I feel bad about asking to pay anything less than they've offered. The only problem is that if I pay too much then it's less money for Haven and I and if I run out of money then we won't be able to survive. It's a vicious thing, relying on money so desperately.

I'm recounting every last dollar I have when I something catches my eye. A boy, on the other side of the street. I squint at the back of his head as he reads some sort of sign. I recognize him somehow, he's familiar to me even though I can't think of how I know him. I don't recognize him from school or the training center and I know that I don't work with him. I resolve to go and speak with him after standing there, pondering this when he turns towards my side of the street and steps off of the curb.

A look of shock and then something else, something exquisite, races across his face in moments and I am moving forward, arms reaching out to catch him. In four fast steps I am across the street and I feel it as he collides with me, where he should still be falling. I drop the moonlanding book on the cement beside me in order to catch him. There is a slight pressure against my chest and I know that there would be pain, that I should grunt. But I've caught him. My hands grip his arms firmly and I push him back up to a standing position so that he's back up on the curb. "Careful," I say softly so as not to come across as chiding, "You could have seriously hurt yourself there."

Slightly embarrassed, I bend over and snatch up my book without looking, moving off on the sidewalk quickly. It's only after I'm nearly two blocks away that I realize that the book I have picked up is not the same one I dropped. This one is full of sketches. They are beautiful and for a moment I simply stare in wonder as I flip through the book. There are many pictures covering the pages but the main subject seems to be pigeons.

I go back to the street that I caught him on to try and return his back and get mine back but the stranger was gone, as was the book that I had spent a whole dollar on. Guilt made me feel ill as I clutched the little sketchbook in one hand, wondering if the other boy was panicking as well. I took his important pictures of birds by accident but maybe he thinks I stole them. I waited there for a half hour, wondering if he would come back, but the sun was high overhead and it was too hot to stay outside for long.

So I head home, holding the book safely to my chest.

If I am lucky, I will meet him again and I will be able to return it to him.

[Python]

[presto] i     d o n t     n e e d     y o u r     p a s t [/presto]
[presto] e i g h t e e n [/presto]	[presto] A R S E N   R A U V His face collided with a chest that smelled faintly of dog and masculinity. He didn’t really know what it meant to smell masculine, but there was a scent there that tickled his nose and screamed the word “boy.” A strong pair of arms lifted him up and pushed him back up on the curb like a rag doll, but only because he had to make himself dead weight in order to resist taking steps backward. If he dared move his left leg back it would ignite, so he shifted only his right leg to balance himself away from the drop off. Somehow he managed not to fuck it up this time. It was an awkward transition but smooth nonetheless, and anything was better than having to cry out in pain for the second time this week. ”Careful,” his savior said, and where had he heard that voice before? ”You could have seriously hurt yourself there.” He glanced up to give the stranger a pointed look. He wouldn’t have seriously injured himself, it was just concrete. A bruised knees and some scraped flesh would’ve been the worst of it unless someone decided to trample him, but he had been enduring accidents for years. Anything these streets could throw at him could be handled quietly and peacefully, even if it was frustrating. He was prepared to stubbornly counter with “I’m fine,” but then he recognized the stranger’s face and blinked the uncertainty out of his eyes. It was the same guy from before, the one who caught him the last time he almost fell on his ass. He didn’t register the boy picking up his dropped sketchbook; he was too busy trying to make sense of the situation. This couldn’t be real. The odds of this same boy catching both of his falls at two different points in time in two different locations were zero to none. His mind was playing tricks on him again, inventing some kind of handsome hero. It was probably to make him feel less pathetic about his clumsiness. The boy walked away and left him bewildered. He had forgotten to double check by slapping the rubber band against his wrist, but was it really necessary? He knew it wasn’t real. Somehow he had caught himself or couldn’t register the sensations of the accident. It was confusing to contemplate, but then again he had hallucinated Emelia’s existence for four months. Every touch, every kiss, every conversation had felt real. If he thought about it too much he would remember, and his skin would tingle. He hadn’t hallucinated in a while, but it made perfect sense. To make matters worse, his sketchbook had disappeared. He was pretty sure he had dropped it during his fall. Since his hero wasn’t real, he couldn’t have taken it. Did someone steal his shit? Some kid with no impulse control? In its place was a book about moon landing, but he didn’t care for literature. He had just lost all of his hard work, all of those damn pigeons. It had been a waste of time. He huffed and walked home. --- Three days later, he suffered another unfortunate accident in the District Square. There was a street performance that had gathered a circle of on-lookers. It was a man – probably a retired career – juggling rings of fire. The spectacle was impressive now that the sun was preparing to set, but Arsen didn’t want to push himself through a crowd to earn a front row view. Instead he sat on the cobblestone with a journal and a pencil in his lap. It was a temporary replacement until he either found his sketchbook (unlikely, but he was stubborn) or purchased a new one. The lined paper pissed him off. All he wanted was a solid white canvas. He flinched when some rude kid rushed right in front of him on his bike. He felt air whip against his cheek and scowled. Couldn’t he just sit here in peace? It was pretty easy not to step on someone, so it shouldn’t be difficult to avoid running them over with a bicycle. Evidently, he was wrong. The kid on the bike charged him and he couldn’t tell if he planned to change direction last second, so he rushed to his feet and stepped to the left – only to have a dislodged stone catch the tip of his shoe and jerk him toward the ground. [/presto]	[presto] d i s t r i c t t w o [/presto]
[presto] o n e   b r i g h t   m o m e n t   i s   a l l   i   a s k [/presto]

[gamemaker kelsier]

M E W

district two

sixteen

male

Come back to this world
and take your heart
off of the higher shelf.

I went on a mission today to find the boy who's sketchbook I had accidentally stolen. I was feeling guilty about it all week because I knew that the book must have been important to him. The pages were worn with scribbles and places where he'd erased lines with a rubber. I didn't really look through the pages, I knew that they were not mine to look at. I wanted to find some information on the owner of the book but the only thing in it was the name of some sort of store. It rang a bell or two in my head but I couldn't fathom why. I suppose Theo must have said he'd been there at some point.

I went to knock on Theo's door to see if he knew the name. Theo knows most things, especially things that I don't, but he wasn't home. He isn't home a lot and I'm used to it but recently I've been getting a bit lonely. He's out more and more often these days and sometimes I worry about him because I know that he still gets sad sometimes about his brother. Instead of talking to me about stuff, like he should because we're friends, he deals with it in other ways. I guess it's because I'm a year younger than him, he thinks that I won't get it or something. I don't know. I never really do though.

I carry the sketchbook in my schoolbag, snug and safe in between my history textbook and math workbook. As I walk I think about the sketches of the pigeons that I saw when I opened the sketch book the other day. There were so many of them, I suppose the boy must be really into birds or something. It's weird, I never considered the fact that someone might be that into birds that they even draw pigeons but if there's anything I know about as a career it's dedication. This kid is extremely dedicated to pigeons and that's admirable. It makes me all the more determined to find him and return his book to him, I don't want to be the one who got in the way of his dream of drawing pigeons.

I get distracted by a man throwing fire in the air as if it's nothing. I'm enchanted by the whirling sticks alight with flame and my eyes shine as I watch, slack-jawed and amazed. It's strangely beautiful to see the trailing embers that can cause such destruction take over the afternoon sky in such a way. The crowd around me makes appreciative noises as the man performs his tricks and I clap along with everyone else, a dull repetition of pressure against my palms, shouting encouragements for more.

It's then that I remember the mission for the day and I begin to move through the crowd again, eyes searching every face for a hint of recognition. I remember that the boy was shorter than me, with sweet, almost childish features but that isn't the most helpful of descriptors. I also happen to know he's a bit habitual about falling over. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to catch him again.

It doesn't take long to find him.

In fact, this time he finds me.

By accident I suspect.

He comes popping up from the ground like a flower on rapid bloom and comes tumbling forward almost instantly. My reflexes allow me to reach out and catch him before he can come crashing into me and send us both to the ground but my mind works slower. I was not expecting finding him to be this easy but he's literally fallen right into my arms. My palms press against his shoulders as I keep him at a standing position. My heart races from shock but I smile, excitement turning surprise into a grin, "Ahh...it's you!"

[Python]

[presto] i     d o n t     n e e d     y o u r     p a s t [/presto]
[presto] e i g h t e e n [/presto]	[presto] A R S E N   R A U V The world didn’t tumble like he suspected it would. The only impact he felt was flesh against flesh, a victory against the wrath of gravity and clumsiness. He was jerked upright by a strong pair of hands, and his imagination was already running wild with guesses as to who it could be – except there was only one guess in mind, the only one that made sense. The only person who would actually appear out of the blue to “catch” him in the nick of time. He wondered if he had invisible bruises where he had actually impacted the concrete. Maybe he would ask Matteo about it, or snap his rubber band until a skinned knee proved his hypothesis correct. There was no denying it, honestly, but the injuries would at least confirm that he was still messed up in the head. It wouldn’t be comforting, but life wasn’t about comfort anymore. He needed to know the truth. He glanced up at the familiar, grinning face, and felt his lips twitch into a tiny smile of its own. ”Ahh..it’s you!” he exclaimed, and it was touching. His mind was very clever, it knew exactly how to flatter him when he would appreciate it most. It was amazing the type of fabrication it could conjure; the boy was tall, handsome, cheerful, probably strong like a machine, with heroic reflexes and incredible timing. It was no wonder he was a hallucination. People like that didn’t exist. Cute boys didn’t catch Arsen in the streets and smile at him like he deserved recognition. There was Theo, of course, but Theo never caught him. He just loitered; and he wasn’t even single. He stared at the figment of his imagination. Now was the perfect moment to turn around and walk away so he didn’t engage. He didn’t want to become attached to somebody that didn’t exist. Reality was more important, real friends were more important. But he also couldn’t help himself; he snaked his left arm around the taller boy’s neck and kissed him. Hallucinations aside, it felt as real as Emelia had, and maybe that was why he did it. Why not, anyway? It had been over two years since he touched anyone intimately, and even if his savior wasn’t real he would feel real enough, so he kept their lips pressed together for a nice warm seven seconds. Then he leaned back and opened his eyes and smiled. That would last for a while. Without a word, he pivoted on his left foot and walked out of the square, making sure to obscenely expose his middle fingers to the kid on the bicycle. This time he hadn’t been careless enough to drop his book. It was gripped firmly in his right hand with his pencil, but nothing had been accomplished while sitting in the square. He had apologized to Matteo for not bringing in any new designs. He hadn’t seemed too concerned. Matteo was a patient man, and he said they had enough designs anyway. Arsen disagreed. There was always room for novelty. [/presto]	[presto] d i s t r i c t t w o [/presto]
[presto] o n e   b r i g h t   m o m e n t   i s   a l l   i   a s k [/presto]

[gamemaker kelsier]

M E W

district two

sixteen

male

Come back to this world
and take your heart
off of the higher shelf.

It's odd because I know that I exist but I've never been one hundred percent sure about it. I think about that sometimes, what happens to me when I leave a room, if I disappear. In technical terms, I no longer physically exist to the person I've left behind. I can't feel the world around me, so maybe I really don't exist until someone is looking at me, is what I think. I told Theo this one time and he fell against me, laughing, pupils wide. He didn't get what I meant I think because he told me that if he existed, then so did I.

Theo can feel stuff though, I can't.

I know because oftentimes, he's grimacing like he's hurting all of the time and mostly for me, if I shut my eyes, I lose the strongest connection I have to the physical world and I slip away.

When the boy who I've spent the past few meetings rescuing hooks his arm around my neck, I am so surprised that I don't move. I wasn't expecting an attack, but there's a slight pressure on my neck, he's shorter than me, it drags me down towards him. If he wants to hit me, I'll let him because it never hurts anyway and I did steal his sketchbook so I probably deserve it. I shut my eyes so that I don't see his fist flying towards me and I won't react, allowing him to get a hit in.

The pressure against my face doesn't come and I open my eyes briefly, confused when I see his face coming towards me. I hope he isn't planning on bashing our skulls together because my brain can still shake and that will hurt him. That isn't a very good fighting choice, I consider telling him that. I haven't ever seen him at the training center so maybe he doesn't know. I'm about to when he shuts his eyes and presses his lips against mine.

I stand still, shock consuming me, making my knees shake. There is a pressure against my lips, but not a bad one, a soft, dear one, like when Mom used to kiss me cheek before I got into bed at night. It's on my lips, and suddenly I taste him, on my lips. He's there, I can feel him there. My lips press against my teeth and we stand silent, still as the world moves around us. My arms go limp at my sides and I wait for him to move away, head bent, our bodies are close together in the crowd and suddenly I am incredibly aware of myself.

Here I am, in a crowd watching fire and magic tricks, being kissed for the very first time in my life by a clumsy boy obsessed with pigeons. I am here, right here in this moment. I can feel how our heads are forced together by his arm, feel myself stooping in order to keep my lips on his.

He pulls away from me and I stand, stock still as he runs off into the crowd, easily slipping away. My fingers rise to press against my lips, as if trying to recant the pressure that was just placed there. "Ahh," I whisper against my fingers as my eyes watch his head bob away, "I have your book."

But he's gone.