"You turn gold. Everything is more beautiful at the beginning and the end of the day, and I want people to see that. I want to capture that. I didn't mean to believe in something. (Did you know that?)"
It was 5:30 in the afternoon.
And her silhouette had danced in the air as if it had been tainted with such rigid dichotomy: the flowing curtains of gold had puffed pigments of the sun onto her hair, enabling it to collapse delicately onto her back, unknotting her braids that had formed a mess of curls, and reflecting its beams on the river of her mane.
Her striking blue eyes had told another story, though, and contrasted lightly to the narrative of her thoughts, synchronizing with the waves of the ocean. The way her baby blues had managed to pull you close was a dangerous notion, contemplating on whether you wanted to drown in her wonderful oasis or stay on the surface of her paradise.
Her lips reminded you of strawberries; they were even softer when he caressed them with his thumb, reminsicing on the time when she was in grief (which, frankly, was a bad idea to recall the moment when she had frowned for what seemed like centuries). She smelled of the fruit, too, which had given you quite the pleasure until she had started letting the fumes of paint float throughout her facet of the apartment. Then you transferred your focus to her, letting her easily consume your thoughts in less than a second.
A mess of hues were spread across the canvas with ease, every hair in her brush sliding smoothly opposite of her previously illustrated picture. Her baby blues shone bright amidst the mass of color held currently on the paper in front of her. It reminded you of the perfect flowing ocean you had seen in Florida a few months ago. The soft beads of grain—the sand—had tattooed you a depiction of her smooth pale skin in his mind. The phenomenally ethereal light of the sun had given you the memory of her beautiful, flowing gold locks.
"Cowboy," you had heard her faint whisper escape her cage of strawberries and it somehow squeezed your core and played a melody with your heartstrings ("You look at her in a way that reminds me of, what did she say—'the first orange hued rays of sunrise as it kisses the horizon.' Yeah.") Her voice has taken you back to a decade ago when you wondered how her tone had been so soft and elegant and mellifluous and lovely at the same time, "What do you think?"
You thought she would utter her speech of routine, ("Sundance, what are you doing here? The hoedowns and cattle pageants are to your left. Not in my apartment. You got that?" "No—" "Now leave.") but maybe she had gotten used to you frequenting the small space of her window to merely watch her paint. She thought that you would grow tedious of this persistent endeavor, yet you had made her think twice about getting out a palette, a brush, and her canvas.
All you need to do is just see her—embrace the memory of her and engrave it in your mind—and you'll go back to the days when you still had a chance. When you still had a chance with her. She embodies natural beauty, her face in essence being the most phenomenal sight he's seen in all his twenty one years of living.
Because, at 5:30 in the afternoon, the incandescence of the sun had touched her skin, lighting up a whole paradise with a single burning wick of a candle. He wondered how she easily maintained a natural appeal.
"Beautiful."
You can see her confusion: her brows drew, forming a crease between those chocolate tinted lines. Her head tilt to the right slightly, complementing her cute little pout and irresistable puppy eyes. It was a subtle alter, but her demeanor grew indecipherable as her crystal orbs dilated, boring holes right into the thick of his skull. It was as if her expression had left her own skin, just leaving her to narrate her own story.
"You didn't even look...?"
"I am."
Her skin had been tinted with a million roses, each individual petal covering every inch of her body. She had returned her direction to the portrait adjacent to her, pretending as if she had never heard your declaration—was that intended? He stopped to contemplate as she kept at her work.
It was 9:00 in the morning.
And you two were sitting on the tailgate of your truck, parked right in he middle of a vast field where all that was present was the wind that blew them sweet whispers and the soft feeling of her head relying on your shoulder for support.
It was something you liked to do often: merely contemplate on life for an hour or so every Saturday morning. You had made sure that you were free for that time of week just to hang out with her. Somehow, it was always enough and never enough.
The first time you did this was the time of Maya's first boyfriend, Jake. She had felt so heartbroken and lovesick because he made her feel loved (you hated her pain, even more than how she admitted that). You had wanted to cheer her up and she loved the gesture so much that this became your thing; another 'thing' amongst all those other things you had between you two and your typical dynamic.
So everyday like this since that first one had been a special time between you and her and you would never let anything ruin that.
"Thanks, Huckleberry."
"You're welcome, Shortstack."
It was 7:00 in the evening.
And you were all dressed up. From head to toe you adorned all that would be seen as eye candy, picking out the best tuxedo in your closet (in which there was merely a handful of them) was not a good idea, so you had bought one. You had bought a corsage, bringing you back to your high school years. That wasn't enough, for you bought a grand bouquet of flowers and wore a cowboy hat atop your head, knowing that would make her tease you all night (but that was okay).
You wanted to tell her.
You wanted to tell her everything she meant to you. Everything from her dangerously sexy wits and sarcasm to her beautiful personality that made you think twice about how fortunate you are.
You knew she didn't like public affection because of how she had hid her previous relationships from her peers (to which you frowned upon, but had tried to cope with since you only wanted her to be happy), so you planned to quietly show up at her window, surprising her.
You had proposed an idea, Riley and Zay being able to help you out with what he desired (you trusted Riley now, and when she was able to keep to herself, you had internally gaped at her incredulously). Riley had made Maya dress perfectly for the occasion, giving her an alibi to get ready for a fancy outing. Zay simply helped you pick out your tux, because to his own thinking, he has a good sense of style (the girls seem to agree, especially Smackle).
You could feel your heart burst out of your chest as you climbed the fire escape and to the image of a white framed window with a small balcony filled with plants and some of Maya's art. Then you heard whispering.
At first, it wasn't clear what you had heard, thinking it might've been Riley's voice reverberating on the speaker, a little muffled to your spite. Then, it was so blatant. Everything seemed to hit you at last as you saw through her window, the fog staining it yet you still could see the figure of a boy—a man dangerously close to a petite image of a girl—a woman—the love of your life.
Then their faces met and—oh, you couldn't watch so you put your back against the brick wall of the facet and slid down, pressing your chest to your knees. You could hear every individual peep from their lips and it sounds like torture. You could hear their names being tossed back and forth and the faint bang against the headboard. You wonder if they even noticed you. You were in plain sight yet well hidden.
You tugged the withered bouquet closer to you and threw the corsage down. You had no idea why you stayed or why did you come here. You just thought it was a good idea. You thought she actually loved you and that you would be the one to make her sing your name and hum you a lullaby.
Yet the last thing you heard when you went to sleep was her singing someone else's name and the constant beating of your heart. There's only one of us that makes your cowboy heart go clippity-clop.
Clippity-clop.
It's 3:30 in the morning.
And you could hear her voice.
"...ou said you would stay..."
Maybe it was the sound of the radio (no. You would recognize that voice anywhere) or maybe it was just your imagination. It was quiet for a moment—just a pause in which had encapsulated your thoughts into a rushing mess, your heart stopping melodramatically as you heard a shuffling of feet on the hard wood floor.
"...on, Aaron. Why do you have to..."
You tried hearing deep into their conversation, only late realizing the voices had travelled further away from where you still remained: sitting on her balcony up against the beige walls that had chipped paint and lingering marks and stains.
"...move. I said, move, Maya..."
There was a vigorous definition displayed in his tone, his voice deepening with every second into each word. And then—all the sound you needed to slam that window up and let your body slide through—a fresh punch across the face. You couldn't care less who threw the fist first or who would throw it back. All that mattered was that you went in there and tear that little bastard to pieces.
You let a low, raspy growl escape the soft of your lips, your eyes fixated only on him. He had the biggest smirk on his face, only to be replaced by the same scowl you had on your's (though you knew that your's had looked a lot more vicious).
You were about to beat all that pride out of him but somehow the soft, pleading look in her eyes and the tears that filled it in place of the typical sparks had clenched at your heart and messed up your thoughts. You let him go and ran to embrace her in your arms as you heard the hard slam of the door and the soft cries from below you.
It's 5:30 in the afternoon.
And she's still in your arms.
The only difference is that she's humming your favorite songs and singing your name as you kiss each other through the dimmed, yet golden light and the soft blow of afternoon.
A/N: Hi. Yeah, um, that was new. Definitely. I've never really done this before, but it was a nice challenge. Should I write more like this or stick to Third Person POV? Please review and let me know! I'll take requests and maybe I could do something like this. Anyway, by the time you're reading this, Trump is officially someone, ladies and gentlemen (he's not my pr*esident). Ugh. I am upset with America but I won't give up. Thank you, I am Farkle!