Our Ambiguity

The grass pokes through my mesh shorts and brushes up against my legs, which extend almost a foot past hers into the road. It was worth it, of course, because my head was right next to hers. Each time a new set of headlights snaked around the corner I’d have to pull my legs up to my chest in order to avoid an adventure to the emergency room. Not that it wouldn’t be convivial, sitting in the retro-styled, hard plastic chairs as the walls resonated coughing and crying, Olivia right next to me as doctors bustled past us carrying the clipboards of life. I could only imagine them saying “And how did you get two broken legs?” And we’d look at each other, Olivia and I, my blazing eyes staring into her oceanic stare, and we’d laugh. Like crazy; to the point the crying and coughing ceases because they were overruled by the overzealous boughs of chuckles from two people to which the world belonged to. Because they were each other’s worlds, and they belonged to each other.

Even in the dim lighting of the moon, I could see her cheeks redden as my hand ensnares hers. It was home to her, and each time we tangled our grasps the hollow burrow in each of our souls were filled with both serenity and certainty. We lie together at the end of a street we didn’t know the name of, in a town that didn’t know our names. I knew we were both recounting the day’s brusquely magnificent conversations, replaying them like a song in which the lyrics have already found your skin.
“But where will we go?” Her voice icy.

“Do you really want to know?”

“No.” She takes a moment before answering, the sound both soft young.

We both knew we had to go back tomorrow. To face our familiar monsters in the same closets. But it didn’t matter, we could lie here, basking in the stars and each other’s company. I turn my head, the cold grass shifting across my face, and I would’ve shivered, but the warmth radiating off of her was too great, and too beautiful to shake.

“What if we don’t go back.” I speak to no one in particular, the question facing only the sky and the darkness that clothes it.

“You’re crazy, we have to go back to our families, and school. It’s okay, we’ll still be here once we go back.”

“And if we don’t?” My question slams into her, but as it sets in her mind I can feel it register upon her conscience.
“Then we can both start over. Together.” Excitement hitches in her throat her I can feel her pulse quicken through her delicate fingers. Her words come out intricate yet eloquent; certain.

“Are you sure you’re ready for an adventure like this?”

I know I asked it. But it wasn’t a question. And she knew it wasn’t, too.