“Well, this is the beginning, of anything you want,” he crooned at me. It was humid, the sky was indicating the end of the summer. We were on the rooftop dangling our legs in the water, and nothing seemed to matter except for the clouds.
What’s more important? The actual fact of getting older, or the reality of not caring? It’s a long way home, and things slow-roasted are usually better anyway.
“I’m too hungry for it all, I’d rather devour than taste,” I told him, realizing that I was borderline whining. And mostly trying to convince myself. Simultaneously, A. was texting me about how we underestimate the power of persistence. Which tour de force wins in the end anyway, when you pit resistance against that which persists?
He looked at me, with those princely wide eyes, not caring at all what I complained about or insisted. “Then here’s your taste,” he said, taking my hand and pulling me all the way in.
Language is so inaccurate. Goodbye, August.