push & pull

by spiralbound

"i came alive when i met you." summer. a lucky coincidence of a meeting.

1. push & pull

push & pull

(push)

"Quinn Fabray!"

Your name is called by a mid-aged lady with rough longish brown hair. She is wearing visibly worn out jeans and a simple t-shirt that she fills out easily. Her whole figure is leaning to the slightly overweight side. The accent is Midwestern but it does not bother you. You weren't really expecting different, although this particular moment feels stolen from a teenage movie. Lisa, her name is Lisa, is the camp advisor. You stand by her as she introduces you to the kids. They are seated in circles, ellipses, ovals on the ground and look up at you with big smiles and eyes full of life. Your heart is both full and tearing. The next month of your life is bound to these tiny humans. You're in the middle of a mountain. It's log cabins, the sound of a river not too far, the wind, and the deep green trees. Your agenda is marshmallows, hikes, pajama parties, and art activities. You need away from the drama, the complications, the confusion. High school has ended. Fall marks the start of something great for you. You feel the excitement on your fingertips, crawling on your skin, filtering through your lungs, and sinking in your bloodstream. Every time you hear the world Yale, every time you think castles and round tables and bright minds and challenges, it's that feeling of rush and rebirth. Mostly, you can't believe it. You can't fathom that you get to have this new world. There's so much you want, need to leave behind.

"Spencer Hastings!"

Lisa calls out the other girl who is on art duty with you for the whole month. She is about your height, dark brown hair, a slender figure. Not quite that of a dancer but certainly of someone who knows how to use space. Her body is a whole piece of motion as she stands by you. A picture in action. Elegant in a misplaced way. Exquisite in the wrong time period. It's somehow unsettling. There's something about her. She's wearing a dark blue dress with white polka dots. In the middle of the great outdoors, she looks too stylish. Like an Audrey Hepburn lost in a Western movie. You wonder briefly who her John Wayne is but then Lisa starts talking again. The rules are laid out. No sneaking out at night, no playing with fire, no going alone in the woods. The kids looks mischievous and you are utterly delighted and smitten with them.

After the final details are sorted the young ones flee to their cabins. The shapes they had formed on the ground disperse. You think of rearranging stars, moving systems, and new galaxies. You look at Spencer and she gives you a meek half-hearted smile. You can't let your face give anything away. You're standing on the surface of the Moon and you have to decide if you walk into the deep craters or you jump into the great cosmic void. You're vulnerable but you can't show her. If you're exposed, you can be pushed and swayed. This summer, it needs to be about you. It needs to be your calls and makings. So your expression is stoic, hers - a lake image of yours.

You can't decide if she's a star that's fuming out or starting to shape but you can see the traces of ferocious burning light in her eyes. They're dark brown with flecks of honey. She catches you looking. She doesn't say anything. She walks away casting a last glance at you with her eyebrow raised. It looks not that much like a challenge but a sizing up. You only cringe because the gesture is so yours, it's scary to see it someone else. But she does have pretty eyes.

(pull)

You fuss through your wardrobe. Your hands flip through Ralph Lauren, Lacoste, J Crew, Lilly Pulitzer, cotton and silk, shades of blue, pink, beige, flats and heels but it's finally on the chair where you spot your flip flops, sneakers, and brown hiking boots. You haven't fully unpacked yet and the disorganization is getting on your nerves. Your room is small but you can make it cozy and welcoming. It doesn't take you long. Camus and Sartre peek from the book shelves, your clothes are ironed and color coded, even though the closet is displeasingly small for your liking. You don't think of yourself as spoiled but you are a perfectionist. Perfectionism takes space.

You walk around with Lisa and Quinn before you start making dinner for the kids. You know the area from the maps you've studied and you feel prepared to make fires and lead trips in the mountain. Your family told you to let loose and relax but there is something about the bunch of kids bouncing around that makes you want to be the best. You're not sure if you view Quinn as competition for their affection of if it's the high strung wires within you that have you walking around checking windows and fire escapes meticulously for the second time. Maybe it's something else but that thought is for another time. Lisa is predictable, a foreseeable pawn that only moves forward. You're not so sure about the young blonde. There's something much more relaxed about the girl than what you have within you but there's still a layer of thin ice and seriousness that surrounds her. You can't quite see past that and into her secrets. The effect of this mystery is simple. Something in you is magnetically attracted to her and desperately curious to discovery why.

You meet before breakfast and you're on edge, just a bit ticked off by the fact that Quinn is waiting for you. She's come earlier and she looks... awake. The sunrise plays tricks on her hair and makes it look like melting gold. You remember stories of dwarves hiding pots of gold in tunnels beneath ground but you can't figure out why beauty should be hidden. If you can't have it with you for everyone to see and you only own it in the hiding, there's something wrong. Something that unhinges you with fear and anger. Neither of which you understand. You argue with Quinn about scheduling and workshops, about directions and exercises. There isn't a thing she doesn't battle with you about. When you finally reach a more or less of an agreement, a part of you wants to scream do it again, do it again, push me to my edge. Instead you say nothing. Surprisingly, Quinn gives you an easy smile. It is like you don't have to do anything to deserve it, like it's just yours to keep. She puts her fingers on top of your hand, wraps it under her touch and squeezes. It's a second, a moment, lightning last longer, damnit, a shared gaze between strangers on the street takes more time. Then she stands up and leaves. Even the breath that escapes your mouth in a held-in sigh lasts longer.

For today, you're happy with your decision. She's a knight that jumps up and down in unpredicted fashion. You didn't expect her. She's right in the center of your board.

(push)

Every morning is a varying degree of beautiful and painful. The alarm wakes you before the sun. You stretch out slowly. You relearn to walk for the second time every day and it usually feels like it's the first attempt ever. You press down on your ankles and spread your toes, you try to prolong your legs, your hands shoot up above your head. Slowly, you twist your wrists and you shake your arms. You inhale deeply, opening your lungs for another day. The cold of the mountain pierces through you and sets in your alveoli. Your chest expands and there's room to let life sink in. Your back always hurts, there's no way for it to not bring up the sensation of pain. That car crash really did you in. Your life up to now really did you in. You spend half an hour stretching, warming up, doing exercises you have committed to memory months ago. Every twist, every joint moved, every fiber and muscle worked, you know when and how, as well as you know the lines of your hands. It's become a ritual. You and your body dance with each other. It's forgiveness, and love, and hope. In the shower you sometimes think of the pink hair you had when you went punk crazy in high school, of the little girl that you brought into the world and is somewhere out there, of Santana and Brittany, of Puck, and Rachel, and even Finn.

You have a light and quick breakfast. The eating area is wooden tables, not covered by cloth or paper with benches around them. You start taking things out and setting up plates and silverware. The light shines in a funny way. It comes in slanted from the windows, static, frozen-like. You catch yourself humming as Spencer walks in. She acknowledges you with a "good morning" and starts helping you with the breakfast.

The days pass. You tread lightly on the ground. Oscar Wilde's Requiescat is what comes to mind whenever a branch breaks under your steps or you see a really beautiful flower. You read a lot of poetry that summer, in the evenings, the late nights, the free moments. But mostly, you play with the kids, weave daisy crowns in the girls' hair and let the boys come up to and ask to hold your hand. You love coloring and drawing with them, singing with them and running in the grass. Sometimes it hurts, when they look at you with inexorable gratitude when you carry their backpacks in the mountain or when you whisper jokes about Spencer or Lisa in their ears. Beth, that little girl you gave up, is giving someone else those smiles, questions, and giggles. One night, Julie, a really stubborn one, leaves dinner last and stands up in front of you full of intention and determination. Her eyes are glued to the floor, fiddling between the tops of her shoes. Her hands play with the creases of her dress and she looks both embarrassed and wildly happy. You kneel in front of her. She asks you, and the words come out so gently, if she can tell you a secret. You nod and tell her of course with all the tenderness you have in you. You take her small hand in yours and the way it rests on your skin is the most precious thing you learn. She tells you she has two parents who work a lot and she has a big house to herself after school. She tells you about running away in Wonderland and Narnia and Hogwarts but none of these places want to keep her. Then she tells you this summer camp is something that is finally real and she asks if you are the princess or the fairy godmother in the story. You laugh a laugh that feels like cherry trees blossoming everywhere and you tell her this is her story and she is the princess. She says, "Then will you be my big sister?" Your yes is met with her arms grapping around your neck, her lips pressed into your cheek. You walk her to her room and then you head out to your tiny cabin. You walk through the huge grass field. The Moon sings quietly to the stars. Spencer is sitting on the ground a few feet in front of your cabin. You both see each other. Your relationship is a constant challenge, you have a rope tied in between your bodies that you both tug on. Push, pull, push, pull. You manage to be friendly but you both have too much competition bones. What you've learned about Spencer is that she ties fashion into history and culture, that she loves the same French films you do but you won't quite admit to that, she is both fierce and a die-hard perfectionist but also protective and madly loyal. You're pretty sure she could see you, really see you. She needs an inch more, and you're all there, laid bare and open. Perhaps she already can. What you do know is that you're both aware you two are palimpsests – scrolls and scripts of written stories that have many layers. You see parts of all these layers, of all these different levels but you don't quite see the whole narrative, the whole pictures. You're little mysteries.

You sit next to her. You exchange no words for what feels like centuries. The stars fall and die and new ones come to be. Finally, a new era comes, and she says,

"I saw you with Julie. It was really beautiful. You are really beautiful. Who you are for her is touching."

"Thank you, Spencer." This time, you tread lightly but it's not about love after death like Oscar Wilde wrote it, it's about love in life, it's about coming to life. You are on the verge of something real that can break you. You hold your mask tightly around yourself. You're distant, frozen Pluto and she's Mercury, oscillating between volcanic heat and icy glaciers. You haven't realized it but your eyes are glued to hers and nothing in the whole universe is moving. She's turned to her warm side so you throw one layer of you scriptured history away. To hell with it.

"Have you seen Before Sunrise? It's gorgeous, and you'd love it. They meet on a train, Celine and Jesse, somewhere in Europe." You're talking really fast but it's not just nerves, it's excitement and whatever the word is for that feeling before combustion, you think you should ask her for it, maybe she has a nice phrase that will pinpoint why your heart is bursting. "They meet, and there's something, something that makes sense and makes them alive. So Jesse asks Celine to jump off the train with him, and she does. The whole thing is about living life, reacting to everything around you, and the small chances offered to you at every corner. It's also about leaving, places and people and bits of yourself, always leaving and never truly. I guess in a way it's about staying and taking things with you. Maybe that's a type of staying too. Finding and discovering new pieces as well. Oh, there's this scene where they pretend to have phone calls – no, wait. Just - Daydream delusion, limousine eyelash. Oh, baby, with your pretty face, drop a tear in my wineglass, look at those big eyes, see what you meant to me, sweet cakes and milkshakes, I'm a delusion angel, I'm a fantasy parade, I want you to know what I think, don't want you to guess anymore. You have no idea where I came from, we have no idea where we're going, lodged in life, like branches in a river, flowing downstream, caught in the current - "

"I carry you." Spencer laughs and scoots over. She lays her head on your shoulder. It's the first time she's touched you. She looks less distant, changing her axis and celestial path. "I've seen the movie, Quinn. I adore the eyelash line. But I thought you'd be better at making a concise point and reciting poetry, what with all that you read."

"I'll have you know…" you start faking indignation but she cuts you over saying she knows. This time she smiles at you and it's finally warm. Another iceberg on your surface cracks.

"I had a baby when I was 16."

You hear the grasshoppers in the distance and a night owl joining the conversation. People always talk about these moments were you rip yourself open and there's a deafening burden of silence. The owl pipes in once more in its alien language. You don't know why you said it, you want to be understood, to deal, to let it not define you but this girl, why this mystery girl -

"My best friend was murdered when I was 15."

You're unsure when it happened but your hands are tied together in the fingers.

"I went crazy, I wore black and my hair was pink and I smoked with all these other lost kids."

"I lied a lot. I stole one of my sister's essays for something important. I've used many people in unfair ways."

Her thumb glides like a bat in the night up and down the creases of your palm.

"I thought of stealing her back, my daughter. And I was in a car crash to stop my best friend who I bullied from getting married."

"I've kissed all of my sister's boyfriends. With some, even more."

Your pinky twitches involuntarily and you hold on to her more tightly, wishing each pair of fingers was a fisherman's knot.

"I've been so fake."

"I've been so greedy."

"I always end up making myself cry."

"I always end up making myself angry."

So you both hurt others and yourselves. A partner in crimes against your own selves. It would sound poetic if it wasn't so heartbreaking. You now decide what the 11th Commandment should be. Don't let go of her hand.

"I have depression."

You finally said it to someone. It's out. The words expand out of your mouth and you can see them lingering and lulling away in space.

"I have intermittent explosive disorder."

She looks relieved too. There's a chance these things won't define you.

You know the two of you don't need the words for what you're about to say next but you say it anyway. It's like stretching in the mornings and opening your wings.

"I'm glad you're here, Spencer."

"I'm glad you're here, too, Quinn."

Maybe you're not Pluto at all, maybe she's not Mercury. Maybe you're both just starstuff floating around looking for something to call, at least for a short while, your own home in the great endless space.

(pull)

You wish you could take pictures of yourself in the mornings and in the evenings. Images of how you see yourself in the mirror. It has been on your mind a lot recently and it hardly ceases to make you wonder. How is it that twenty four hours slip into one day? Where do all the things that transpire hide in your face? You wish you had a magnifying lens to look for pores or wrinkles which will arise one day, rivers and canyons in your skin where the words of each moment sink it, the touches, and the thoughts. You are almost half way through camp. What you know is that for the first time in your life you are able to openly admit to yourself that you are so, so very lost. My mirror twin, my next of kin, I'd know you in my sleep, you ponder as you touch the glassy surface of your reflection. Those aren't words intended to be directed to one's own self but it's the best you have. You hide too much. Sometimes you don't know if you're running away from other people or just from yourself. You don't want to sound too existential and deterministic but it's already a late night and you're tired. It's either now or early in the mornings when such a problematic would nest in your mind. You've done so many things in such wrong ways. It's looking at these innocent kids who could hold the entire world in their hands that you've started to see yourself. You don't, however, see the way to approach yourself. Easily enough, The Picture of Dorian Grey comes to mind. If you had a portrait like that, it would be twisted, and wicked, and wretched. It's not the first time a little voice in your head tells you things could be different but it's probably one of the first occasions that you let it be heard.

There's no Internet at the camp location. You drive an old truck that Lisa had left for you and Quinn to use to a nearby town. Usually you or the blonde, sometimes both of you, stock up groceries and meander the streets. There's an unremarkable café, the same way a small coffee shop would look in a small town anywhere else in the world, probably with the same type of people. A pair who is having a conversation that seems fully important and novel, a lone girl writing in her notebook, a boy waiting for someone, a barista fuming around with a bright but cliché smile. You've gotten used to their excuse for cream and the mediocre taste of most of their offerings. But they have wifi, so you get to Skype with Hanna and Aria. They talk about summer, about Rosewood, families and lovers. It's been quiet for a while. No A, no dark puzzles, no secrets that you can feel burning at the back of your neck. For you at least, both lost and found in the mountains, it's almost peaceful. Aria is going on a long spiel about a poem she's read about an oneironaut, a dream explorer, that you realize you don't read poetry and this morning you were quoting Leonard Cohen to yourself. You tell them a bit about the kids, and Lisa, and you try to avoid Quinn because she makes you feel uneasy. You do mention her and Hanna smiles. For some reason, Aria starts talking about Emily and Paige and there's a pang in your gut. On the bright side, you think, all of your friends are moving on from a confusing high school experience. On the bright side, you think, despite the webs of lies, the fallacies and hidden facts, you have friends who have your back, a loyalty and trust you feel undeserving of. On the bright side, and you laugh, because since when have you thought about the bright side.

At night, alone in your bed, you often listen to Augusta Read Thomas' Moon Jig, sometimes you flick through stuff by Jennifer Higdon, Steven Stucky, Mason Bates. You've grown a special spot for Mimi Stillman's performances. But at night, usually hours before you get to bed, Quinn makes the kids dance to the music from Lion King, Pocahontas, Tarzan, Mulan. You've come to enjoy the sight of it. Bubbles of laughter and bodies full of joy. But at night, usually just an hour before you go to sleep, Quinn meets you in the middle of the grass field. It's open, huge and vast but together with her it can feel secluded and protected. Sometimes she makes you dance to Yelle and Earth, Wind and Fire, other times she plays Midnight Train to Georgia, and you can't help but laugh, a laugh she takes from you when she jumps absurdly to Nutbush City Limits or sways to songs by James Brown. She is gorgeous, her hair wild, in the middle of the dark green forest, the open land, the unfinished sky. The best you know of freedom is this mountain wind and these moments with her. It's partly because, you reason, she's just a person who doesn't ask anything of you, nor asks you to be anything. She takes you as you are, offers her hand to lift you from the ground, and then you're moving together. It's strange, you ponder. You thought she was white and you were black. Opposite sides of the same game. But it's not quite that simple. You let the thought go as she puts her hand a little bit above your waist and twirls you around.

It's another early morning. The metallic pings and pangs of spoons hitting bowls from the kids echoes around the room.

"What kind of question is this, Quinn? The Crusades, between 11th and 13th centuries, were primarily Catholics attempting to purge which religious group? Do you know how old these kids are? This is beyond what they have learned!"

"Exactly the point here. See, they get to know who was in the Crusades and when they happened! The question itself gives them that. I'm not even commenting on your Around which year did the Black Death wipe out 30 to 60% of Europe? That's an unreasonable question. You tell them percent, and next thing you know they are thinking evil wizards and curses!"

"Your mind is just fairy tales, Fabray. Children need exposure to math, not your Catholic preaching via subtle wording."

"So this is what this is about! Because I have faith, you need to pull out atheism through mathematics!"

"It's a solid ground for logic and reason, none of your fairies and dragons!"

"Oh, first you call me out on being Christian, now you call me out on having an imagination. Good on you, Spencer, at least you can see the things you don't posses."

"Arithmetic gets me through my day, I calculate the time to the peak of the mountain, the number of eggs per kid that we have for breakfast, I don't see you calling your house elves to do that for you."

"Tough luck for you, Harry Potter nerd, and the answer to the first one was 313 AD."

You argue as children continue chewing and swallowing. You had exchanged the initial questions you both had written to answer and comment on. You fired long streaks of words about the topics, the difficulty but mostly you'd bickered as much as you could about your personalities and who you are as people. You are quite aware that it could matter less to the kids as long as they can guess and all get prizes. But to you it's a dare-me-to-move-I'll-bite game, it's I'm-watching-you-watch-me puzzle and you're entranced, enchanted, and enamored with the thrill of it. You eventually discard history as a topic. Instead, the agreement is giving each team a map of the world and questions they could figure out together as a group, slightly challenging but not impossibly so.

Lisa has promised to take care of camp for the evening so you can go shopping for prizes for trivia and to replenish the stock of food. You're wearing a navy blue skirt white a creamy short-sleeved top. As your flats meet the floor of the truck and your right foot lets go on the pedal, you sense Quinn's lips tearing in a bright smile. You raise your eyebrow in the usual fashion and she blurts out,

"The comedy in the situation is delicious. You're stuck in a small space with someone you quarrel with on the regular, you're the sort of exquisite that's walked out from a movie, and this is the ugliest, rustiest truck know to man that can't go above 40 on this road in the middle of nowhere."

"I hope you realize there's an axe in the back of this vehicle."

She raises her eyebrow too and the humor of it all isn't wasted on you.

Shopping is a quick affair. For the most part, you let Quinn breeze through the aisles and put things in the cart you're pushing. You haphazardly argue with her about products as per the usual song you've written between yourselves but the greater part of your attention is spent on trying to memorize the contrast of this boring and lackluster place to Quinn, her silky hair made of stars, her slender body in a light green dress. She is gorgeous, her lips light pink like an early morning, against the lines of detergents, between the aisles of fruits, talking to a faceless cashier. You're crossing too many lines and definitions for your obsessive and perfectionist habits to not be anguished and confused. It's breathable for now but only barely, like you're in an underwater cave and your mouth is touching the ceiling where the last catch of air resides. After you load the food, treats, and toys, you feel brave, you can swim. You tuck on her wrist and say you have time for coffee. It's the most you can say for it not feel like an invitation. Even your friendship is a tentative glance without precedent, forget the rest which you don't understand.

Sitting opposite her on a small table in the corner of this unremarkable café, you know it's all the same way a small coffee shop would look in a small town anywhere else in the world, certainly with the same type of people. You two happen to be the ones who let their drinks go cold because you're too lost in each other.

She opens the passenger door of the truck for you and offers to drive.

"The drama of the moment is spectacular. A clumsy and distracted blonde attempting to drive back to a camp site in the middle of nowhere through a meandering mountain path of steep curves with ferocious pine trees all around. All of that, while blasting yet another nameless hipster song."

"And yet, here you are, you silly fool, trusting me."

Usually you open with a Sicilian Defense. It's a set of moves that can open many possibilities, it requires a level of mastery or wild confidence. You can pull both or at least one on the off days with ease. You intimidate your opponent from the start. For most people it's typically enough. Your other favorite is the Queen's Gambit. You offer a sacrifice, a pawn, to gain a better position for the Queen, a stronger center. Novices focus on the figures that can be taken out but you've learned how details can change a whole picture. With Quinn, you wonder. She looks like someone who would play an English opening. A total flank maneuver that can throw you off, starting from the sides and then it hits you. But then again, the tune of whichever song is on permeates your skin, your cells, this moment. You're not playing against each other anymore. It's not that scary to let her move some of your figures. A strand of hair is playing with her forehead. There you are, you silly fool, trusting her.

(push)

Okay, you tell yourself. Somehow it has happened. You try to figure out when exactly the sun decided to be annoying and wake you, when the deep blue of the night ran away and left you unprotected. You are currently trying to blame all celestial forces that you believe in with the hopes to find some memory or explanation. There's hardly much of a recollection in you but you can stick two and two together. Bonfire, an empty glass of something, a slight headache making its presence aware, and your legs feel like they've been filled with iron. It's only after you attempt to stretch that you acknowledge the fact it's not the early morning or the alcohol that's made your legs tired. Spencer's head is placed a bit above your knees, her left arm snaked through one of your legs. Your thoughts are somewhere between shit and what the hell when she stirs. She has probably felt you waking. Her chest rises and freezes for barely a fraction in a long breath. It's enough for you to see it. She releases and slowly turns her head around towards you, still on your legs. The look you weave together is that which in movies you'd give to two lonesome hidalgos meeting somewhere in the Spanish plains under an unforgiving summer sun. It's filled with want and longing but you have no idea what to do about it. She looks just as lost. The best way to deal with this is to retreat and talk about something else. She beats you to it.

"My, my, I didn't know you were such a lightweight, Quinn."

"Your rights to throw annoying remarks against my otherwise wholesome personality are currently revoked, miss Hastings, on account that you shamelessly, thoroughly shamelessly, with absolutely no qualms, used me as your personal cushion tonight."

"Don't flatter yourself, darling, you weren't that great. I've had better."

Your mind is in the proverbial gutter by the possible interpretations. It's too early for such suggestions and your head is still blurry.

"I can only please those with the refined sensitivity to appreciate something great."

"You like to show your claws in the morning, now, don't you."

It's not even a question yet you feel compelled to tell her. You already have, at least partially. She knows how mad the hormones in your body are, she knows that sinking feeling of depression that tears you, and she knows it's always worst in the morning. But she looks like a deer caught in the lights, frightened and ready to run. You understand her because you feel the same. Nothing happened last night, yet a lot of things did. You vaguely remember telling her that the one of the most vulnerable times for someone is sleep and that she will be the last thing on your mind as you fall into Morpheus' arms and dream. Spencer is quickly discovering how to travel faster than the speed of light and cross galaxies to get to you. What is unnerving is that it comes naturally, much like the way stroking her hair felt like. You remember that too.

You lift yourself up and stretch out to the most of your ability. Your body is rigid from sleeping on the ground. Today is hardly a day you're equipped to handle without a proper workout but someone has to have some responsibility. You head to the dining area, Spencer next to you, carrying the remnants of your night, a blanket and an empty bottle. Slowly, it all comes to you. Another moonrise you'd met together, the two of you, your after dinner desert of a conversation comfort. It's been like this every night since the first one. You talk about the big things, philosophy, her refute of Descartes' ideas about thinking things, your love of Wittgenstein, you dissect concepts in non-Euclidean geometry, and you argue about the way language came to be, you delight in your juxtapositions of the Bible and Qur'an, the way she retells you the Mahabharata and Ramayana like they are stories and songs, she lets you love Lot's wife and the be lost in the tower of Babel, and you give her a new appreciation for six-armed deities and talking tigers. It's because you both challenge each other to love deeper, to know why you choose your choices, to ask, to ponder. You have no delusions, neither one of you, that you will undig some great answer or holy truth about life. You won't. The meaning is found, however, in that you can rejoice in an argument with someone who understands, someone who can match you and take you on for an intellectual walk. What you discover isn't grand, will not change the books or lessons but is enough to be imprinted in your own personal book, in your own little story. At nights with Spencer, you see yourself reflected in her eyes.

You talk about the small stuff too. You talk favorite shops, movies, music, painters, you map out Paris for adventures you want to take one day. Sometimes you hit the stuff in the middle. Not the huge life scale matters, not the day-by-day passings but your own makings. Those vary in importance. Your Spanish is better than Spencer's, she is still learning but she has a superior mastery of Russian which you've only dabbled with briefly. You're both fair in French but only use it to sing along to songs or yell absurdities to each other. You learn these things, the stories of your friends and families. You've cried in Spencer's arms about that glass stuck in your back and those wine coolers at that party, the way your mother lives alone in her alcohol-ridden world, and how your house is an empty fortress. She's cried in your arms about her torn and ripped relationship with her sister, going through boys she never loved, not knowing whose expectations to live up to and what her own for herself should be. You never quite understand, and you've had this conversation with her, how two people can be so open to each other, so honest and pure. You talk to her about Brittany and Santana, you don't mention their names or the fact they're both girls, but you tell her how they have no secrets, how they share everything, it's all in the open. You tremble as you do because you don't think you could ever show yourself to someone, that you could love someone like that. That night, she tells you the story of a man, an old man, trapped in his body, his mind long departed from the rest of him, barely functional. By chance a nurse in the home plays a song from his youth. It is the first time, she tells you with eyes glittering with the magic with which roses bloom, he comes to life again. Then they play him more music and he moves, he dances, he talks to people. It touches you, and you tell her,

"To love something so strongly, so that it can bring you back to yourself, so that it gives you you, that's the kind of love…"

You don't seem to be able to finish that sentence, you're kind of lost and lingering in that story.

"That kind of love, Spencer… Give me another word for it, you who are so good with words."

"Blessing."

She says, peaceful and quiet, as if it's what it always has been and you were the only one unaware. You take it. A blessing it is.

You're walking up the mountain, the kids are chanting and spelling laughter that echoes around and about and hugs the branches of the old trees. One of you always walks in front of the line, the other is in the back so no one gets lost. Usually you play rock-paper-scissors with Spencer to determine who goes to the front, it's yet another challenge you have to figure out. The small things with her keep you on the edge, and that keeps you alive and pumping. Except you can't even do something simple the fair and easy way. Instead of the expected rock, paper, scissors you two play with black holes, eagles, caves, and any shape you can make with your hands. The only expectation is the surprise of two beautiful minds meeting in the same place. This time she walks in front and you walk behind. She beat your Elvis vinyl record with Mjolnir, the hammer of Thor.

Lunch is bagels and soup you've brought up in mugs. Some sort of birds are singing delightfully and the wind makes the sun's light merciful. As you see the moving air play with Spencer's hair, the way the unruly tresses move up and down, up and down, you decide the wind could be some sort of leitmotif for the summer. You would go chasing the wind if it brings you to these smiles, Spencer's and the kids'.

Julie is sitting next to you. You know her best from all the kids. You know her favorite color, her favorite dress, and her favorite snacks. She is young enough to start showing interest in things you like, she imitates you in ways that make you laugh. The first time you caught her raising her eyebrow, you couldn't hold it in. She tried to give another child a death glare and you wondered how she had seen you do that, provided the only person at the whole camp who could get one out of you would be Spencer. You've not let any other camper in your room, just Julie. You have pictures with her on your phone. She has tried, sometimes successfully, to steal your t-shirts. You're not supposed to have favorites but it's way past that. The tiny girl gives you hope and you can give her things your sister never gave you. Except what is new that day is,

"I really like Spencer. She talks the way smart people do. And she dresses so pretty. Do you think I can hold her hand?"

You instantly freeze. Has she seen you? For f-ck's sake, you chastise yourself, you've never held hands with Spencer for more than seconds. The fact that your reaction is as though you have been doing that for years is what punches you in the guts. When you look at Spencer you see a vein popping on her forehead. That happens when she gets irritated. She has told you how she deals with her anger and how therapy has helped her not explode. Seeing her plaster a fake smile on her face so she can be polite to whichever child is annoying both breaks your heart and reminds you of how strong she is and how hard she tries.

"Tommy got dirt on her dress! Again! He likes her too, I bet. I would never do that to her. I would give her flowers."

Julie's observation is poignant enough. She adds carefully, like trespassing on foreign ground,

"But Quinn, you're her age. Why don't you get her flowers?"

Again, uou want to laugh. But you also want to cry.

In the newspaper you have read that CERN has discovered a boson, likely the higgs boson, the so called God particle. It's something you've waited for years, given your curiosity for space, matter, energy, life. This particle completes the Standard model, a theory that grounds an explanation for the universe in twelve fundamental particles governed by four basic forces. Higgs, a man with a bright mind, hypothesized about the existence of this particle forty years ago. Hours ago, he had been proven right. Something barely noticeable had made a huge change. A man who had waited for years had received his proof. You look at Spencer as she walks in front of the line of kids hiking down to the camp site. You never believed one person would need another to make them whole and you still refuse to but she helps you be complete and you can't deny that. You're calmer, happier even around her teasing smile and witty remarks, around her fiery persona and her obsessive traits. You hadn't even known that you were waiting for her, not forty years, but just maybe a lifetime. She casts a look back to see if everyone is following. She waves at you. You smile without hesitation.

(pull)

It's because the lands volcanoes have touched become the most fertile. You have been exploding in anger and frustration for long enough, you've burned yourself and swept away enough people, that the afterquiet is now something you can find redemption in, a place to build anew. That's why when you're playing hide and seek with Quinn in the middle of your grass field and she is pretending to be invisible you don't feel like you're a fire that's going to kill you from the inside. The only fire is in your heart and it pumps to remind you this is a new soil you can plant hope and love in. You tacklehug the blonde and she yells,

"Spencer Hastings, keep your foul field hockey moves away from me!"

Next thing you know, and since when is it that your body moves on its own accord, you're holding Quinn up in the air by the waist and you're spinning her around. She spreads her arms like a windmill and yells words you can't hear. Then she has her arms around your neck, fingers slowly walking into the dark forest of your hair. Her cheek is pressed against yours and you can feel her smile.

Resting on your backs under another star-full sky she asks you,

"Do you reckon our opinions on all that we talk about will change one day? When we're eighty and wrinkled or even two years from now?"

You spend a minute or maybe three hours talking about it. About the ways you are probably going to change and your opinions too. How maybe Descartes will become your friend or Quinn will change her views on international market exchanges. What you don't talk about is that you will likely never go to those Parisian adventures you have planned together or that you will not know each other in a few years. Sometimes it feels like it's the most stupid thing in the world, the way that you deny each other. You know which states you come from but you've never talked cities, and you've never talked college, never talked exchanging addresses, writing letters, phone numbers, calls, texts, visits. Sometimes it feels like it's the way it should be. Something so beautiful cannot exist outside the realms of this world you create and nurture. Most of the time you accept you are a darn fool in any way and do your hardest to not think about days flipping off the calendar and trains that will take you two in opposite directions. It's that thought that makes you ask her,

"Quinn, why did you take my hand that first day, you know, before breakfast?"

You've wanted to ask her before. The gesture felt overly intimate for friends who have known each other for yours. Doing something like that with Aria or Hanna or Emily would be absurd. Yet that was your first interaction and it made equally no sense and all the sense in the world.

"It felt like the right thing."

A pause. Quinn looks at you hesitantly,

"Why did you ask me out for coffee after trivia shopping?"

Her phrasing doesn't go by unnoticed, it's like an arrow hitting the center of the circle, right in your heart.

"I felt brave."

Her fingers slide in between the spaces of your fingers. Slowly, skin touches skin. It's warm and comforting, the way her fingertips press down lightly on your knuckles.

You're good at chess because you think ten moves ahead anyways, it's who you are. You see so many possible outcomes but you don't know which one with Quinn you would consider winning. You lean into her and let her wrap an arm around you. She kisses the top of your head protectively, although you can feel how unsure she is – not in her affection or care but the gesture. You want to tell her she is allowed but that would mean acknowledging you're allowed as well. You're not that brave yet. The only thing you can do is sigh quietly and move further into her. It's the very first time in your life that you are fine with not winning. You would be very happy with a draw.

(push)

After much hoaxing and bickering, you are sneaking out after dinner to catch a movie. One, it's hilarious because you both wanted to go out but you simply had to argue about it. Two, it's absurd how mischievous you feel provided it's barely nine in the evening. Spencer and you have agreed that you are both being unreasonable and irresponsible to leave the kids alone but you are doing it anyway. You made sure everyone is in their beds and you've never had problems before, so you are risking it.

The point of no return isn't when you choose to watch Moonrise Kingdom. It's not how delighted and overjoyed Spencer's face is throughout the movie. It's not the popcorn that you throw at each other, and it's not the fact your fingers are touching on the armrest. It's when Walt asks what Laura is apologizing for, he says "It's not your fault… which injuries are you apologizing for?" Laura, his wife, replies, "Specifically? The ones that still hurt." The way it gets to you is like a ocean wave enveloping you and taking you down to the bottom. You lift the armrest and flung yourself to Spencer. She catches you whole and slowly brings you back up for air. She holds you strongly, without doubt or question. After this, she doesn't let go of your hand for the whole night.

You both love the movie and you talk a lot about the characters, the color schemes, the soundtrack. Spencer drags you into a dinner. You order scrambled eggs, bacon and a cappuccino. This isn't a night you want to end soon. There's a certain midnight romance about almost empty dinners. When the waitress asks Spencer, who is having an omelet, how she would like her coffee, the girl opposite you says she wants it black as the devil and sweet as stolen kisses. Your eyes fall to her lips and you are far, far lost. A tiny little voice speaks in your ear, Or do you not know that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Your eyes are gliding over her face and it's beautiful, she's beautiful, she's exquisite. The voice goes on, thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind, it is abomination. Your eyes roam everywhere, slowly but surely, an eager pupil. It doesn't stop, but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge. Your eyes can see it, her skin, porcelain and clear, you want to touch. Louder and stronger, detestable act, degrading passions. Your hand clutches the cross clinging around your neck but your eyes are on her. She is looking at you too. You wish you could close your eyes, you wish God would make you blind and not test your faith. She takes a sip of her coffee, dark enough for you to drown in. For this is the will of God, your sanctification, for you to abstain from –

"Quinn, are you okay?"

The worry on her face is something you've not seen from your father, your mother, your sister, your friends, your classmates, the Cheerios, the punkster, not anyone, not ever before. It's overwhelming. She places her hand atop yours without pressure. Time has left the building, space has been distorted, the vacuum of outer space consumes your lungs. She looks like she could cry for you, she looks like she would cry to clean your wounds and so you let go of your cross and grab onto her hand. She moves from sitting across to sitting next to you in the booth.

"Our hands fit."

"So do we."

You will never ask to be blind again. For her, for this, for life, for being real and breathing, you would eat the apple, you would swim unparted seas, you would turn around and become a pillar of salt.

She walks you to your door. It's either really late or really early or maybe it's that point where it's equally both. You're tired. When have you lived a thousand lives. Why were they all so lonely. You tell her bonne nuit. You ask her how to say goodnight in Russian,

"Bessonitza, tvoy vzor oonyl i strashen; lubov' moya, outsoopnika prostee," she murmurs close to your ear and you have a hunch it's not quite what you asked for. She refuses to translate her words but you forgive her graciously and too quickly. She kisses you somewhere between your cheek and the corner of your lips. You say,

"Thank you for tonight."

She says,

"Thank you for letting me be with you."

(pull)

You promised you would make sure she is up, so really, it's the only thing you are doing at this hour in front of her door. You also happen to be wearing one of your favorite dresses and holding a bouquet of white roses but that's entirely beside the point. Coincidences happen. She opens the door, her hair wet and a tangled mess.

"The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep."

You've planned that line, so you spill it out mechanically. It's the nerves and you almost half-shove the flowers into her hands before you remember you're Spencer Hastings and that's not how you treat people.

"It's from a poem by Rumi. That line. The flowers are from me, though."

You give her a cheesy toothy grin followed by a wink and she chuckles.

"You little rascal. Sun is already up, I expect something other than Rumi or Nabokov next time. When did you get these?"

So she has figured out your little Russian stunt. It was inevitable in any case. You're still smiling like a silly fool.

"Wait, you were out running?"

You catch on to the fact that wet hair means shower which means her morning routine. She nods.

"Have you even slept, you idiot?"

"In my dreams."

You roll your eyes but you're frankly quite amused. She's in a good mood and it rubs on you too.

"I bet that's more than you've had. Idiot."

It's your time to nod.

Before the kids finish breakfast, it starts to pour. You decide to switch the outdoors activities for arts inside. That translates into Quinn blasting Disney music and explosions of paint occurring everywhere. It doesn't even take one round of you walking around the whole room before your hands are covered in paint. Lucas, a boy that craves your attention, gives you blue lines on your cheeks, so you can look like a fairy. You thank him and sit on the floor next to him. He is painting a house with dinosaurs. After he's finished, he puts your name on it and gives it to you. He says it's not a gift but for safekeeping and he's going to take it when he's older and when he can ask you out on a date. His eyes are hopeful, so instead of the million things you could do, you whisper in his ear that your favorite chocolate is the very, very dark kind and that there's some in the fridge. He runs over and gets a bar which he hands to you. You share some pieces and he tells you about his favorite toy cars and how much fun math is. You agree about math and promise to see his cars. When you tell the boy you have to check in on everyone else, he looks slightly disappointed. He beams at you, though, when you tell him chocolate with him was a wonderful date. You feel like you've grown a lot, to be able to do these things. It hurts a bit that little Lucas is actually the first boy in no way related to your sister or family that you've been on a date with. Then again, you laugh at this interpretation of date.

Immediately, a hard blow in the stomach, because what on Earth was last night with Quinn. You find her easily. There's a small circle of children around her and she's reading. You walk towards them but from the side that's behind her. You don't want to change anything or interfere. It's her moment. She's like a magnet, a strong force that draws others in. You want to revel in her presence today, the way that she almost broke last night and built herself overnight. You want to admire and appreciate her, you don't want to disturb. It's raining outside. Of course she would be reading poetry to the kids.

somewhere i have never traveled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gestures are thing which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

Julie is right next to her and if you didn't know, you would believe they were sisters. Maybe they actually are now. Quinn reads with a passion the children can't understand fully but with a gentleness you're sure enchants them. Her voice is made for stories of magic and fairy dust and her little listeners believe her, even if the meaning behind the words escapes them.

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touchfully skillfully,mysteriously)her first rose

Slow motion cameras should exist for moments such as this one. The way Quinn's hair hits her shoulder. The sound of the rain tapping the windows. A sigh a boy lets out. Julie's reverent face. Quinn's slender fingers holding the book. The little puffs of air coming from her mouth. The tip of her tongue tripping against the tops of her teeth. The song of sounds and syllables slithering and sliding in the air. You've walked around the circle and you're in front of Quinn. There's no other way for this to be and the film is truly rolling in slower speed when she looks up at you, holds your gaze and recites,

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even rain, has such small hands

(push)

Everything is too much. You're alone in your room, resting on your bed, the incantations of sweet aroma from the roses ghosting around. You're a musical medley, a pastiche of works you know from others. Your head is full of poetry, lyrics, lines from movies, quotes from books, witty remarks from TV and it's simply too much and much too not enough. Your senses aren't equipped to handle this. You are confused. You want to take string and needle and sew everything together, wrap it in simple brown paper and lay it in her feet. She can have the world.

The moment you're done being scared, you run out in the open, rain catching in between your hair, sinking in your clothes. You knock loudly and angrily at her door. You don't wait for her to open it fully when you start talking. You're agitated and it's all coming out,

"If there's one thing I know about you Spencer, it's that you break me and make me whole. If I give you an inch, you'll take two. You rip me open and there will be body bags beneath my eyes for the nights I'll cry so hard after we leave, the Moon will stop shining. Because you make feel alive and you bring me back to myself. So goddamnit, darling, let me in."

She does. She lets you in.

(pull)

The fact of the matter is that Quinn is the more eloquent one. You gave her clothes to change in, so she doesn't catch a cold and you tried to not look at her when she stripped her wet ones away. You're now sitting Indian style opposite her on your bed. You take her hand and press a kiss to it. She takes yours and mimics the gesture. You kiss her fingertips, her knuckles, her palms. You want to remember the taste of her skin. She does the same. Your brush your lips against her shoulder and she doesn't fail to do as you do. Not a second of trepidation. Your blood is daring and you plant one on her neck, quick and tender. She gives you two. Your kiss her forehead, she kisses yours. You're a scavenger pleading mercy, she holds a treasure with no price. Your lips touch the tip of her nose, she lets hers linger on yours for longer. You are each other's match. One of your hands holds one of Quinn's. Another is in her hair, and hers is playing soft tunes at the back of your neck, dangling with your hair. You kiss one cheek, then the other, you feel the same on your skin. The buildup feels like a challenge, a game of who will win over the other, and it makes sense, since it's so much of who you are as Spencer and who she is as Quinn. But you don't want it to be a trick of who gets there first, not a race, not a game, not a show, you don't want it that way. She's pulled back and you know, she feels it too, you simply know. You both move together and consent to be wrecked and burned alive.

There are kisses and kisses and it's become so much of a trivial exchange nowadays. There are slow kisses that burst with tenderness and promises and expectations. Lips move like corals swaying in water, carefully and measured to the point, eager to please, careful not to harm. There are kisses which fuel with passion and undress the very surface of the other's mouth. Teeth dive in and tongues come out ashore. There are solitary kisses, never to be followed, never to be continued. There are kisses which come in bunches, sometimes jumbled in with words of feelings that can't be held captive. There are first kisses, goodbye kisses, willyoulovemeforever kisses, kisses that fall from the lips to the neck, to the great expanses of the skin. Some kisses study, others revere. Some kisses are expected and habit, others a surprise and a gift. Lovers lock lips in luscious delights for purely sensuous and sensual pleasure and deny each other sometimes for the same cause. Some last the blink of an eye, others consume whole nights. A few are prayers and every now and then there's a kiss that's forgiveness or a blessing.

What you share with Quinn isn't like any other type of kiss. It's unclassifiable. Beyond any measure of history, beyond the scope of any sanity. Pure and deep like mountain water, elusive like its color.

You sink, you drown, you float. The Queen falls, the king retreats, check, check mate. You lose. You win. You are home.

(push)

The first feeling is joy. Like swinging up high, high, high enough your toes touch the clouds.

The second feeling is falling into a bottomless pit. Tears come on their own.

You wake up in Spencer's bed but there's no Spencer around. Of all of your mistakes, this is a great contender for hurting the most. You pretended to be the perfect girl for the love of your broken family, you tried to be the model student and the head Cheerlead for the admiration of everyone in your school. That didn't work so you bullied them into fear mixed with respect and mystery. You went for love with the first boy who was willing to tell you you were beautiful and wine was a good enough reason to believe him. You died your hair pink to be what no one expected but still no one noticed you, you for who you are. You have switched images and faces and the one time you throw away your mask, you wake alone. Is it because you are not worth love?

Fuck you, Spencer, that's all you can think as your body shakes. You're not going to leave her your tears on the pillow you shared. How dare she lie to you and use you. How dare you let yourself love her.

(pull)

Okay, so maybe you panicked and needed air to compose yourself. But you're ready. You're ready to tell her it doesn't matter that you leave in a few days, this is the most honest you've felt and the truest. You open the door with one hand, lightly as to not wake her. In the other you have breakfast.

She's not there.

There is no blonde goddess in your bed, no witty charmer, no loyal friend. Of course she would leave you. That little scared Christian girl. Why would she be strong for you. You imitated your sister, you copied your mother's taste in clothes, you asked your father for his heavy books. You manipulated your friends and pushed your teachers. You played with boys someone else had already loved and why wouldn't you do all of that. Why would you be different. No one else will pick you first, no one else could love you when you're weak. Why wouldn't she leave. Why would she stay for you.

The tray with the food falls on the floor and you can't be bothered with the eggs spilling and the juice drenching the carpet.

There's a single golden strand of hair on the pillow and you cry.

(push)

Make up, pretty blouse, cute shoes, straight back, walk with a smile. Tall and proud. No one will know. You have this down to the dot. You've done this so many times, the hollowness of it doesn't feel anything but welcoming. A last rescue. What you know is where you can hide. You're safe with yourself.

The kids are already eating breakfast. Julie smiles at you and pats the seat next to her. You smile back but walk past her. Perhaps you don't have quite as much power to look back and see the disappointment in her. Not today.

Spencer looks like a barely contained disaster. She's outwardly composed but you can see her hands tick and her vein popping. When she sees you, her eyes are daggers and you're ready to walk right up to her and slap her arrogant face.

Wait, what. Why is she angry? She left you. You're confused as she nears you and grabs your wrist. Her nails leave marks on your skin. She seems to want a glaring contest but you're not giving her one with all the children now watching. You drag her to an empty table. There's paint on it from the kids, their arts materials still scattered around.

"Pick your weapon."

You don't know where you're going with this but you need time. You can't start yelling at her. Not with the kids. Not here.

She grabs a piece of paper and a paintbrush. Of course it's the last piece of paper. You don't need more reasons to be angry. You take a pen and a napkin.

What are the chances? What are the possibilities? What else could have happened. Damn, you Spencer, and you know you can't win this. After a certain level, all dangers become the same. You write what your heart tells you. Then again, there's nothing quite like the trap you set for yourself. You may as well go all the way.

(pull)

You've calmed down when you finish. Painting is cathartic but knowing she is just as boiling gives you hope. You turn your sketch upside down and slide it to her. She gives you a napkin with words.

You drew three sketches. The first is of you at the door, leaving, looking at her sleeping. Both of you are smiling, her in a dream you hope is of the two of you together, and you, mesmerized by how she lights up everything. The second is of you coming back, holding the tray. She's in that sketch too, blanket around her, still smiling, hair messy, eyes shining. The last one is of you two together in bed, food tray in your lap but completely ignored. You're kissing.

Unshed tears are in her eyes when she peaks up. Well, now she knows. You take a deep breath. The napkin poem is heavy like heartache and light as salvation in your palm. It reads,

you plant me in the morning

in the waking soil

so full of dust, so full of lust

i have my thorns up as

the sun is shining

to touch, you have to burn

to bleed

in the evening you curl against my leaves

whisper in my petals as i bloom

your kisses spur me red and ruby

a midnight dragon's fire breath

your fingertips are pressed into my stem

but by the sunrise you'll have left

fly away, my freed white dove

i want to be in love

like roses

She thought you left her. Your guilt is tremendous. For crying out loud, you shouldn't be doing this because kids are too young, and parents are traditional and conservative but what the hell, they need to learn tolerance too, and, fuck it, you don't really care because you're kissing her then and there. And she's kissing you back.

(push)

You weave her crowns of daisies. She smells of lilacs and magic mountains. She tastes like peaches and oranges. She makes you think of light and flying. She has kissed all of the scars you've let her see. You write her notes and you slip them under her door, in her pockets, in between her fingers. They say things like,

You're a human exclamation point.

What's the price of your smile? I'd make elephants jump for you.

I'm jealous of a little boy. You need to stop holding his hand.

Are you wearing my shirt? And I thought you had no taste.

You make eating cereal sexy.

Flower for your thoughts?

It's mostly to make her laugh or give you a playful wink, it's mostly that you want to give, it's mostly that you want to have. It's just love.

(pull)

Your best conversations are when you are watching the kids, when you are eating together, when you're driving the truck down to town, when you fight over vegetables, when you talk in the middle of the grass field, in the middle of the night, before sunrise. Pretty much all of the time. It's not hard at all to adore this girl. Giving her the world is a daily job, and you're positive people have tried, likely some with success. So you give her yourself.

You've watched Hitchcock's To Catch a Thief and you're having a serious argument about who is more attractive, Cary Grant or Grace Kelly.

"I'd honestly go for the diamonds. Those two can have each other."

"I can buy you diamonds, you can go for me."

"Are you telling me I scored a sugar mama?"

"Have a little class, you'd be a trophy wife."

(push)

"That's a foolishly optimistic view to have! Self-sustaining communities in Africa are thoroughly unfeasible in the next two decades. Have you even heard of democratic ruling to begin with? There's no logic in your economic arguments, yet alone the environmental aspects that you try to relate them to!"

"I have succinct, clear points unlike other people who ramble and rant about outdated theories and past regimes!"

"Simply because you're blinded to the importance of prior political experiences does not mean the people who live there are not impacted!"

This has been going for a while. Julie, Tomas, John, Kylie, Jessica, Rick are watching you. Julie approaches and asks what's going on and if you're okay and if you want warm milk because that's what calms her down. Spencer is quick with the save,

"Please ignore our sporadic outbursts of screams in an entirely futile logomachy. Quinn's Panglossian views have not yet faced the challenges of the real world, so I'm trying to divest her of her right to say unintelligent things."

Julie walks back to the other friends and you hear her explain,

"They are making some lego machine but Quinn used to be a cheerleader and her views on pom-poms are not helping with the building. Spencer said she would help her and give her a pretty vest."

Most of them nod in agreement and you're trying not to burst in a fit of giggles Spencer isn't even trying. Everything if full of her laughter. Nothing else makes a sound.

(pull)

Maybe you'll forget the way her kisses taste. Maybe the first thing to go is the exact color of her hair. Maybe it will be her eyes. Or perhaps, the way the bone of her shoulder hits your chest at night will be the first memory to fade. Another guess is the touch of her fingers lacing into yours. It could be the feeling of her arguing your every word. You wonder what will disappear from your mind first, second, third, and when it will all become a trace, a hint, a mark that has faded. The frame of her body, her toes playing with yours under the sheets, how she looks at you when you tease her, how she looks at you when she teases you. The soft feel of the fabric of your favorite blue shirt of hers, the cursive of her handwriting, the music she sings and the way she dances. How quietly she cries and how deep the scars pierce through the skin. The dimples on her back, the shell of her ear, a whisper.

Memory means losing. You don't know if you'll remember what happens between you or the way you'll tell it to yourself or the stories she's told you. Maybe nothing ever happens outside of the imaginations of your hearts. Perhaps you'll defeat memory. Perhaps memory will defeat you.

When you eat ice cream together and you walk in the sun she says,

"I'm happy."

You hope you get to remember this. You don't want to keep mildly in touch, to feel a burst of jealousy from seeing picture of her on someone else's arm, to lose peace over her safety and the million what ifs. No one can take the fact that it's real, and it's happened. Here and now, no one, not even memory, not even you. You hope you get to remember this.

You say,

"I'm happy, too."

(push)

"I believe in pink - "

"Okay, Audrey Hepburn. Give me an answer that isn't calculated to make me melt."

You kiss her. What was the question?

"I believe in every breath you breathe."

(pull)

You're sitting in the middle of the grass field. It's really dark. You have three matches.

"Three matchsticks lit one by one in night…"

You play with them in your hand and she's watching you pass them between your fingers.

"The first, to see the whole of your face"

You light it and smile at her. She's beautiful in any light. It's a cliché, and you feel like a cliché, and the part of you that has elitism boiling down is revolting but hey, not really. A little bit. Love can be a cliché. This girl makes you happy. You're happy. You're free.

"The second, to see your eyes"

Her eyes have grown darker, they've captured the forest around and sealed it in her gaze.

"The third, to see your mouth"

Her lips twitch into a smile. You know this smile millimeter by millimeter. You throw away the match as it burns out.

"And complete darkness to remember this all, with you locked in my arms."

She giggles.

"This time was better than Rumi and Nabokov."

"Kiss me already, you snobby bookworm."

"Since you ask so nicely."

(push)

You send away all the kids. You give Julie one of your necklaces, your home address, your phone and you tell her to shine and write to you. You give kisses and hugs to everyone. Spencer does too. The train departs and there's smoke going up in the air. You hold Spencer's hand like it's your life raft. You don't want tomorrow to come. You haven't talked about it. You've avoided it by all possible means, walking away, playing loud music, kisses in the middle of sentences starting with anything suggesting the inevitable.

You clean out the camp, your rooms, you pack. It's an empty place, it's quiet. It's big, it's full of things you've shared. You see differently.

You're also sad.

"Spencer, why are we faithed to love things in life that leave and wither?"

She is too.

"Because that's life, we're all here to fuck each other up and love each other. That's what's to be done. Fuck up whoever is around to be fucked up, love whoever is around to be loved."

You're also angry.

"Goddamnit, why can't you just be human and wrong and mistaken?"

She is too.

"And why the fuck can't you actually give me something tangible, other than your pretty words?"

So you say things you don't exactly mean. It's hard to let go and you don't want to lose, not this time. You know she gets it.

You're also in love.

"Without you, I - "

She is too.

"With you, I - "

"Me too."

"Me too."

(pull)

"You're going to marry a wild man with raven black curly hair who wears white formal shirts everyday and has shoes that cost more than my annual coffee expenses, which is good, because he may not look like half a fool standing next to your gorgeousness."

"You're going to elope before you graduate whichever snobby school you go to. He's going to be a swimmer but he'll quit and do sports management and he'll be good and you'll always get front seats for basketball games you won't care about but he'll be great in bed, so you won't mind too much."

"You'll be a lawyer. Or a politician."

"You'll teach in a school with castle-like buildings and you'll travel a lot."

"You'll have a lazy dog who sheds on your leather couch and sleeps in your legs."

"You'll have two cats but you'll stick your mother with them sooner or later."

"I'll find you when you're 65 in Paris and we'll drink coffee near the Eiffel tower."

"I'll have forgotten your name and I'll ask if I should know it. You'll say yes, and I'll wonder if we've slept together, and if not, why I'd been so stupid."

"I'll be too wrinkly and my boobs will sag but I'll just wink."

"I'll think about you before I fall asleep."

"I'll see you in my dreams."

"I'll see you in mine too."

"Can we call them ours then? It can be a secret. Between you and me."

"I won't tell if you don't."

"Ours."

(push & pull)

A brunette and a blonde exchange a few words at the train station early in the morning. The wind takes the words and steals them away for safekeeping for another time.

The two kiss on the cheek, close to the lips but not close enough. Their fingers slip away like a caress at night before you fall asleep.

She doesn't turn back, not once. She disappears inside the train.

The other has her eyes fixed on the train. The smoke comes up, the train starts moving. She watches it until it's a distant dot, and then, nothing.

She takes out a small piece of paper that she hasn't opened yet. She plays with it a little, remembering its weight, its shape, its feel. She opens it and it's a picture. A sketch. Two girls, hands tied, smiles burning, sitting in the middle of a huge grass field underneath a sky of hope and stars.

She takes out a small piece of paper that she hasn't opened yet. She plays with it a little, remembering its weight, its shape, its feel. She opens it and it's a poem that reads,

i met you in the mountains

right beneath the furry clouds

you caught me in your lashes

you whirled me in your fancy dress

my heart awoke beating

my heart had one request

i pushed into your castle

you pulled away my lands

the magic of your story

weaved in mine its charms

we threw our glassy shoes for dancing

you'd come a kingdom from afar

you sweetheart, you pretty darling,

you almost showed me who you are

and a little some of who you could become

so tender and so gentle

you broke me into whole

and then the long smokey train of autumn

chimed at the station east to west

i think i saw your ocean hair flash

unruly at unrest, a wave goodbye

to the mountain wind,

my sweetheart, my pretty darling,

and to all you gave me back of i

They say that to say goodbye is to die a little. The wind took no goodbyes from the lips of two girls that day.

What you said was,

"I love you."