a . n ////
a teeny [as in humongous. for me anyway] project for myself, inspired by a man with the name of wayne newton. and to just write something again. i hope it's kind of cute.
oh, and this will be four small parts, in case anyone didn't know what a quartet was. ;)

A QUARTET.

L—is for the way you look at me.


It all started from the window.

In his mom's kitchen, whenever he would do the dishes, he'd glance out the window and into the crisp, blues skies outside. He liked to think of it as his own little television, to keep the boredom away as he scrubbed the plates glassy and wet.

Sometimes, there would be a sparrow flitting past, chirping out its own melody of the day. Other times it would be a hummingbird, wings vibrating into two thin, blurry lines.

There would be clouds and people, walking around and conversing. The sun would make shadows grow toward the east, dusky and dim. There would be boys his age, who he should be playing with, punching and kicking with sticks, playing knight for the tiny girl in the blue dress.

She had ultra long, shiny hair, missing teeth, and a lot of smiles.

She would never ask the boys to play. They would usually come to her door, swearing that they heard cries from the damsel in distress.

She would go out and play with them anyway, with a giggle and rosy cheeks.

She was a girl, but she didn't act like one. She'd get scrapes and cuts, bruises and gashes, gaining the fawns and attention from the concerned little boys. He couldn't deny that he fell into the category, too, except the concern would stay trapped in the cage of his mind.

He'd watch her steal a stick from the boy whose hair she always ruffled. She'd wag it around, teasingly, tauntingly, and then run away from him with squeals when he pounced.

And days would pass. He would be inside, looking out windows, while they were outside, finding adventure, the girl's laugh burning a pathway to his eardrums.

He would find himself wanting to fill her with his attention, wanting her to fill him with the exuberance that dripped from her cheeks. The wants fogged up the windows to the outside, the atmosphere in his house and room.

So, all this wanting led him to unlock his front door. It led him to turn the knob, to open it. It led him to step out into the realm of looking and running and fun.

But as he stepped onto the wooden porch, his grand entrance to the group of kids in the middle of the dirt road acquired him…well, looks.

Or, more accurately, a look.

Because the boys' looks could have been a glare, something that said, 'this is our territory go away.'

But the girl had something different. Her eyes were unnatural. They weren't the coffee brown he had seen from the windows inside. They were red. A happy, blushing, earthy red. And in them, she already held curiosity, inquiries, and a friendly openness.

It was a look that invited him in, and, perhaps scared of closing it forever, he ran back inside to his house. He closed the door and was safe.

But when the breezes turned cold and when the moon came up, he opened the door again, and took a seat on the well.

He gazed at the glittering stars and promised himself that he would stay tomorrow, and he wouldn't run away from his maybe-faults.

He leaned his head back against the bricks on the surface of the well. He counted the craters on the moon, saw a mermaid waving to him from her invisible sea, watched the stars surround her like a school of fish.

And then he took in a glowing red. He flinched, and he lost his balance. He tumbled down the well and landed in a heap at the bottom.

He heard a titter, and took in black tap shoes in front of his eyes. They had reflecting moonshine, and he followed the trail to her forever rosy cheeks.

"Hi," she said. She leaned over and gave him a hand. He swallowed and took it, standing up. He looked at her face a while and he looked away, forgetting the lines so properly calculated inside of his mind. She tilted her head, positioning it in his field of vision again. He took a step back, and she took a step forward.

"You don't talk much, do you?" She smiled, big and toothless. He frowned slightly.

"Guess not," he said. But it wasn't what he wanted.

She picked up a stick, brandished it in the air. Then she poked him in the face, tensing up and hopping away.

He didn't follow her, standing still and rubbing his face.

She turned around and looked back at him, brows furrowing in dismay. "Aren't you going to chase me?"

"No," he said, uncertain.

She placed her hands on her hips. "Why not?"

He blinked a few times. The frown he had kept from before deepened. "Because I can't keep up."

She glanced down, and fiddled with the stick in her hands. "Oh."

She turned around and threw the stick toward the pasture, by the fence of a house.

"Then I'm going back home," she said. She started to walk to a house with lighted windows and a looming figure, watching them.

He breathed in, devastation filling him up, like steam and something burning . "Wait!"

He grabbed her arm, and she faced him. He let go quickly, but his eyes held hers in a look that contained the words he forgot.

She stared back, first in confusion, and then in innocent understanding. He blinked, and she blinked, and turned back to her house.

The next day, he watched them from his wooden porch.

She poked the boys with another wimpy twig. He heard her tell them that she didn't want to be chased anymore.

Then she looked at him, and he looked right back.

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