He sees her, blond hair sticking to her freckled face, slipping ice cream onto her tongue. The air around him becomes hotter. He tries to walk away but before he can, her eyes lock with his. Then, he hears his laces tap the ground and she's suddenly right under him, staring up at him with viridian eyes laced with cynicism and mouth slightly parted with a question of whether or not he would be worth her time. He doesn't answer and sits down beside her. He looks at the families passing with whining children and animal shaped balloons. With sunhats and khaki shorts, they all look the same. He turns to look at her and sees beads of sweat forming at her neck. He subconsciously wipes his own and turns back to the clutter of the zoo, but all he can focus on now are the little droplets.
He's slouching, head where his back should be. She's hunched, elbows sticking to her thighs. They have the same shoes. She doesn't know why he's here. Maybe to torment her, or maybe himself. He's wearing jeans and it's a hundred and two degrees outside; he was always stupid like that. She has the need to punch him, to knock him down and hold him by his collar, to scream in his face, "You ruined me, you know that, right?!"
But instead she sits there, trying to ignore his presence while staining her tongue hot pink with ice cream. He's dazed, still looking at pedestrians but not actually seeing them, only imagining the girl right beside him, but over there it seems like a different world. He's scared of her, as well he should be. Yet, attracted to her, as well as he should be. He should feel a whirlwind of emotions towards her and he does and he acts on none of them. Instead he sits, in the heat, imagining.
He knows she hates him; he hates himself too. He's certain anyone would. But she says it anyway, "I've always hated you."
His heart is suddenly right in his ears, hammering rapidly, and his stomach has dropped. He knew, but hearing it come from her mouth stings – more than he knows it should.
"I'm sorry," he understands his words are fruitless.
"I don't care."
"I know."
"Shut up."
He shuts up. He locks his fingers, sticking his left hands fingernails into his right. He does this repeatedly, clenching until his hand is red.
She notices this and tells him to stop. He stops. She hates the way he listens to her. It makes her angry and upset, and it makes her eyes prick hot with tears. She doesn't cry, she exhales. And it's working until it's not, and suddenly it's all pouring out and she's sobbing.
He holds her then, hushing her and petting her. It was like he never left.