A Treat

Novel excerpt time! I am being simultaneously brave and lazy in doing this, because I have little more to say than an uninteresting, disjunct series of thoughts about things no one other than me cares about (e.g: There's a beetle crawling around in my lampshade, buzzing and near-death. It's annoying.), but also because I think this is the one part of my novel that is good (not the very beginning, but the start of the things that actually matter, i.e introduction of the male main character.) I know it shouldn't be good without my having edited it, but that's why I only have 2,444 words total, I edit as I write. Must stop this practice. Without further ado, 776 fictitious words I have written in the past 4 or so days:

A blurry, haloed-looking figure comes toward me, tall and lanky, the only other person here my age, most likely. At first I think it might be Jane, my only other close friend, come to drag me to the movie theater or to see some oddly shaped leaf on the other side of the park. But it’s a boy. His skin is pale but lightly pockmarked with either acne or nicks from shaving, or both. His wide, feminine lips are spread into a smile, and he strides over as if I am just the person he wants to see. His hair is dark and ruffled, like it’s been slept on. His eyes, too, look sleepy and heavy lidded, and are a candy-like shade of brown. Suddenly I want to rip his irises out and covet them like a rare Halloween prize. My use of flowery adjectives is enough to make me want to kick myself, but he captivates my thought processes so. I can’t help but wonder if he is thinking of comparatively sappy ways to describe me. I mentally scan myself: short, pale, wire-rimmed glasses in front of swampy-colored eyes, waist-length hair the dark reddish-brown of an old scab (a burden in August, but it’s all I can do to loosen the curls that made me my mother’s little Annie in childhood, only fully Rhiannon in times of serious trouble). I am staring at him so intently that I don’t realize he has stopped in front of me and is staring back. At a rather downward angle.

“Can I help you?”, I say sarcastically.

“No. I came over here because you looked sad. And you have nice boobs.”, he responds, now looking me in the eyes. If I had fully comprehended this statement I would have blushed, but I am unmoved.

“Honesty is the best policy, right?” I laugh weakly, continuing my attempt at humor, “I fully expect you to now humbly admit your burning desire to steal my virginity.” He sits on an empty swing between me and two young girls. “In front of the children.”, I add.

“Exactly, m’lady. Though I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance for the merest of minutes, obtaining your body for sex--whether you be willing or conscious or neither--is now my ultimate goal in life. I must have you, you saucy tease.”, he soliloquizes loquaciously with a light English inflection. I am unable to decide whether to laugh or be flattered or slap him or take his face in my hands and caress it the way one would handle an abused eagle. I want to touch it.

I search his face for signs of sexual advance, but I find only mischief, not malice. My face cracks as I try to stifle a snort, but I continue the banter with exaggerated English dignity, “Ooh, I am overcome by your passion. But, dear sir, we mustn't! The townsfolk would think me a rather unsavory tart.” He laughs and takes off swinging. I won the unspoken competition of not laughing whilst sounding ridiculous (was it even a competition to him? Is he so naturally deadpan? Being deadpan is hard, but I still won. Small victories. . .), and follow his lead in a fit of giggles. I’m not a giggly person, but I doubt he’ll call me out on it. If he does, I can blame the heat. The preparation feels good, considering this is the farthest I have ever been romantically. It’s like a condom for thoughts: always have some way to back out. For a moment I am almost delirious with happiness, my head tilts back to see the sky whirling back and forth in my line of vision. The swing was poorly timed; I go back as he goes forward.

“Did you really just make a tart pun?”, he shouts in an unaccented voice.

“Yeah.”, I call back, “What of it, you--you, you BOOB STARER you?!” I’m near hysterics and stuttering. I should really get to know his name. Had he said I looked sad earlier? Wistful, maybe, but not sad. The fact that he cares scares me, even more than the possibility of sexual harassment. This might be what love feels like--the creepy type of love with an unknowable possibility of requital. On the one hand I so desperately crave romantic love, because it is love that happens by choice, not a relative love that happens by obligation. It’s like saying to another person, “I love you for who you are, not for your genetics.”, which is a powerful implication, and an implication I feel I will never deserve.

**I use way too many hyphenated words.**