Opia

My face felt molten hot, particularly where his lips had touched my cheek. The contact itself was so soft that I initially thought I had imagined it, but his face looked a little more pink than usual. I smiled down at our hands as he steered me around the restaurant and sat himself down at a booth.

I had trouble reading the plain English on the menu because my head was swimming in a sea of scathing feelings for the boy sitting across from me sipping at his Coke. I couldn’t help but glance at his lips every now and then.

“Aliz?”

It took a moment for me to realize he had said my name. “Y-yes, Stellan?”

“Have you picked out what you want yet? The fettuccine is pretty amazing.”

“Whatever you’re having is fine with me,” I tapped a finger on the rim of my glass, which was filled with bright pink strawberry lemonade. My stomach was full of so many butterflies, I doubted that I’d be able to finish anything that was put in front of me.

“How long has your father been smoking?”

My eyes shot up from my drink and straight into Stellan’s. His eyes made me think of the smell of damp earth. He scratched the back of his hand and cleared his throat quietly.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

“It’ll be 33 years in August.”

Stellan looked awkwardly down at his hands. I wanted to hold his hands. I wanted to tell him that I was afraid to look my father in his yellowing eyes and how I can’t sleep comfortably unless I hear those rattling coughs. I want to ask Stellan if he’s ever ran through a forest just after it’s rained and if he’s ever been told that thinking is most definitely not a hobby.

Our food arrived just when I was about to ask him what it is that he thinks about so much, but I just looked at my plate. It took a while for me to even finish half of my food. Stellan asked if I had any pets, if I have ever broken a bone, what I write in my diary. I sort of lied and told him I mostly write poetry. His eyebrows rose to show his interest, but I waved a hand.

"I'm not very good anyway, it's just something I do when I'm having an off day."

"Would I be able to read some of your poetry one day?" His eyes were curious.

"Maybe one day," I smiled, "but I don't think you'd like any of it, honestly." Because most of it is about you, I added silently. Of course I felt more than a little pathetic about my scribblings about him, but I'd rather eat horse shit than let Stellan read my journal.

"You'd better not be lying to me, Aliz," he grinned, "I'll read it all eventually, mark my words..." Stellan trailed off pointedly. My eyes drifted from his eyes to his hands and back up to his lips.

It happened so fast, I didn't know I even moved until a stinging pain arose from my right hand. I had gotten up from my seat and leaned over the table to cover my mouth with his. My left hand was resting on the spot where his neck met his shoulder, the skin was hot. I was leaning most of my weight on my right hand. Stellan had grabbed his salad fork, which he hadn't used, and stabbed it down onto my hand; two of the fork's tines managed to scrape some of the skin off of the knuckle of my pinky finger. There was one drop of blood.

I blinked several times. I probably would've dumped all of Stellan's Coke onto my head because my skin was screaming for the feel of his lips against mine again, but I just slumped back into my place and looked around. People were staring. Stellan looked like he'd never blink again.

"Uhm—“ I dug around in my pocket, hands trembling, and slammed ten dollars and some loose change onto the table, "t-thank you for this, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry—" I weaved around tables and waiters with trays, almost smashing into the glass doors because of the tears threatening to spill. I ran home and sat in the backyard, hoping for a meteor to plunge through the Earth's atmosphere and straight onto my head. I'd be blown into a million pieces so tiny that nobody would be able to recognize me. Especially not Stellan.