A boy's appetite is awakened at thirteen.
To meet her at twelve was a blessing and a curse.
He isn't sure which is worse - forcing it or waiting it out like a dream.
If only he could split his twelve years in halves and add.
If only he could become a man over the course of a night.
It might be meant to be this way, he thinks.
She might be meant to be like a sister.
But seeing her greet other men drives him insane, and the mundane everyday of their travels - he knows - is boring her.
He wants to be exciting.
He wants to be a man.
A man.
If only he could; if only she can force his years somehow.
He is technically one hundred and twelve.
Is that old enough? he wonders.
Is she looking at me or looking past me? he wonders.
Is she as soft as she is in my dreams? he wonders.
Then she does something - anything, something small - like tucks her shirt in or flattens her mouth when her brother says something dumb, or gives her bread to a little boy on the street, or throws a rock from her shoe - and he wonders even more: how can the heart drop to the knees without compromising its viscera, its vessels, its nerves?
Some nerve he's got to look at her that way.
In her eyes, he is lost at sea.
He wants to say this without sounding lame but can't find a way.
Instead he pulls down his pants near the river and jacks off to clucking otters in neighboring banks.
Like a pervert in the dark he finds his way back to camp, lanky and still wanting.
This is his life at thirteen.
This is the Avatar at thirteen.
Who would have believed it would be this obscene.