'Cause the Hardest Part of This is Leaving You.

The boy looks surprised when I stick my head over the fence and call him. He's older than I thought, perhaps eighteen, with dark hair and a tattoo of a small star on the inside of his left arm.

" Yeah? " Something flashes on his lips.

" Can I burn some things on your fire? "
He trots on the path towards me, wiping a hand across his forehead as if he's hot. I catch a glimpse of something else up his left sleeve - probably a tattoo, but I'm not sure. He looks shorter in person. His fingernails are dirty and he has bits of leaves in his hair. He doesn't smile. I lift up two shoe boxes so he can see them. My small jeans are draped across my shoulder like a flag.

" What's in them? " I was right, he has a lip piercing.

" Paper mostly. Can I bring them around? "
He shrugs as if he doesn't care either way, so I walk through our side gate and step over the low wall that separates the two houses, across his front garden and down the side of his house.

" I'm Gerard. "

" Frank. "
We walk in silence down his garden path. I bet he thinks I've been dumped by my girlfriend, that these are love letters. If only he knew. I bet he thinks, No wonder he got dumped, with that skeleton face and bald head.
The fire is disappointing when we get there, just a smoldering pile of leaves and twigs, with a few hopeful flames licking at the edges.

" The leaves were damp, " he says. " Paper'll get it going again. "
I open one of the boxes and tip it upside down.
From the day I noticed the first bruise on my spine, two the day only two months ago when the hospital officially gave up on me, I kept a diary. Four years of pathetic optimism burns well - look at it flare! All the get well cards I ever received curl at the edges, crisp right up and flake to nothing. Over four years you forget peoples names. The fire spits, embers spark away into the trees.

" I'm unburdening myself, " I tell Frank.
But I don't think he's listening. he's dragging a clump of leaves across the grass towards the fire.
It's the next box I hate the most. Me and Mom used to trawl through it together, scattering photo's over the hospital bed.

" You'll get well again. " she'd tell me as she clutch a photo.
I have a sudden desire to rush back home and get more stuff. My clothes, my canvases.
I say, " Next time you have a fire, can I come around again? " This boy keeps surprising me, with another tattoo on his right neck, a scorpion facing down, as if to run into his shirt.
Frank grabs another handful of leaves and drops it into the fire. He says " Why do you want to get rid of everything. "
I squash my jeans in a tight ball; it feels small in my fist. I throw it into the fire and It seems to catch light before it even reaches the flames. Airborne and still, melting into plastic.

" Dangerous Jeans, " Frank says, and he looks right at me, as if he knows something.
I think perhaps standing too close to the fire has melted me because I feel strangely dizzy and light. I'm not quite sure what's wrong with me - maybe it's not eating properly - but I seem to not be grounded in my body. The garden suddenly turns bright. Like the sparks in the fire, which drift into my clothes, the law of gravity says that all falling bodies must fall to the ground.
It surprises me to find myself lying on the grass, to be looking up at Frank's pale face haloed by clouds. I can't work it out for a minute.

" Don't move, " he says. " I think you fainted. "
I try to speak but my tongue feels slow and it's so much easier to lie here.

" Are you diabetic? Do you need sugar? I've got a can of Coke here if you want some. "
He sits down next to me, waits for me to lean up, then hands me the drink. My head buzzes as the sugar hits my brain. How light I feel, more ghostly than before, but so much better. We both look at the fire. The stuff from my boxes has all burned away; even the boxes themselves are just charred remains. The jeans has turned to air. The ashes are still hot though, bright enough to attract a moth, a stupid moth dancing towards them. It crackles as its wings fizz and turn to dust. We both watch the space where it was.

I say, " You do a lot of gardening, don't you? "

" I like it. "

" I watch you. Through my window, when you're digging and stuff. "

He looks startled. " Do you? Why? "

" I like watching you. "
He frowns, as if he's trying to work that out, he seems about to speak for a moment, but
looks away instead, his eyes traveling to the garden.

" I'm planning a vegetable patch in that corner. " he says. " Peas, cabbage, lettuce, beans. Everything really. It's for my Mom more than me. "

" Why? "
He shrugs, looks up to the house as if mentioning her might bring her to the window. " I'm a vego. She likes gardens. "

" What about your dad?"

" No. It's just me and my Mom. "
I notice a think trickle of blood on the back of his hand. He sees me looking and wipes it away on his jeans.

" I should probably get going, " he says. " Will you be alright? You can keep the Coke if you want. "
He walks next to me as I make my way slowly up the path. I'm very happy that my photo's and diary are burned, that my small jeans have gone.
I turn to Frank at the gate.

I say, " Thank you for helping. "

He says, " Any time. "
His hands are in his pockets, star tattoo just peeping out, tongue playing with his lip ring. He smiles, then looks away down at his boots. But I know he sees me.