We’d run down the green hill, holding hands. Laughing. Euphoric. The moist grass splashing between our toes. My mom would leave money on the console table under the keys. We’d slip on some shoes, extract the few dollar bills, and run out the house towards the cinema, laughing again. Then she’d look at me. Her golden hair aflame with sunlight, a tendril fluttering with the breeze, dancing across her eyelashes, framing her cerulean eyes. She’d hang on to my arm, smile, and my heart would skip a couple of beats.
I stole glances at her in the dark theater. I chased half-popped kernels with my thumb, and she heard my fingers rustling against the bucket. She smiled. It was just the two of us. All the time. Everywhere and anywhere — Jamie and I.
I’d tell her we should grow old together, and she’d giggle. I’d watch her look up at the sky, on starry nights, leaning back on our hands, feeling the cold, crisp grass under our palms. I’d clutch handfuls of it, and when I’d see her eyes glow like the moon, my soul would sing. I’d clench my grip, cold grass biting into my palms, then rip out two fistfuls.
Brian and his parents moved in to our neighborhood — we were a trio now. The three of us would run down the green hill. In the evening, I’d listen to their giggles mix with the chirping of crickets.
I’d watch Jamie and Brian look up at the stars, their shoulders nearly touching, faint smiles parting their lips. The stars winked back at them like they shared a secret.
I didn’t feel things change at first. I scraped the popcorn bucket in the theater, but Jamie wouldn’t look my way. She reached over to Brian’s popcorn, shuffled around in the bucket, pulled out a few kernels, then smiled at him. The woman on the screen shrieked, people flinched, and Jamie held onto Brian’s arm.
We’d run down the green hill together — the three of us. I’d find myself ahead, and when I looked back, they were holding hands. A strand of her golden hair fell across her cheek, and he tenderly tucked it away behind her ear.
Then they realized I felt left out, so they tried including me. That’s when I really felt I was left out. Why would someone need to include you if you’re already present? But they did, because it was their circle, and I was intruding, now.
So, I kept my distance after that. The same way I kept my distance when I cried. I told them they were tears of joy. I cried when he pushed back her white veil, revealing her radiant face, standing at the altar before he kissed her.
Yazen Masoud resides in Houston, Texas. He’s a big fan of traveling, and has roadtripped across several states. He loves exploring new towns and cities. He is a fan of Haruki Murakami and Charles Bukowski, to name just a few.
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