Summer Burdens

Sunny Ajitabh

“That was exactly how I felt, following my own Obscure Object. As though I were carrying around a mysterious, unexplained burden or weight.”Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides.

The summer has been unbearably warm, its heat so heavy that it’s forced us down onto our knees in her backyard, struggling under the world’s burdens. I can barely open my eyes beneath the weight of the sun.

She looks the opposite of miserable, though. The sun spreads under her freckles and turns her skin to copper, glinting in the light. Golden rays turn her auburn locks into red flames that flicker down her back. With the way she unintentionally bends the sunlight to do her bidding, I wouldn’t be surprised if she told me she was a creation of Apollo.

She turns to me, letting a strand of fire slip over her ear and across her face. A smile glides over her lips like butter. I thought I was melting before from the heat on my skin, but the way she gazes at me, with those sharp emerald eyes and that languid smile, I realize I’ve only now reached my boiling point. I’m evaporating.

Scratch Apollo. She’s Aphrodite’s incarnate.

“It seriously sucks that you have to go away for the summer,” she murmurs, her voice a golden drawl over me, like honey, sweet and heavy. “I want to take you to my summer house. We could have so much fun.” She leans toward me, and against her lips I see the promise of a secret. Her mouth grazes my ear as she whispers, “My parents won’t be around as often. We could sneak in all the booze we want.” And, as an afterthought, she adds, “Also, boys.”

I laugh, though I can’t find myself sharing the same excitement. I flick some dirt at her playfully, and she squeals in delight. “Your parents are already out most of the time,” I tell her, raising an eyebrow.

She scoffs and takes a sip from the brown bottle in her hand. I watch her do so, mesmerized by her movements. Her lips curve so perfectly around the rim, their pink gloss glistening in the sunlight, and at the sight of them, jealousy devours me.

My insides broil into something acidic and poisonous, raging hatefully at the bottle. I want to be the drink she sips from.

It’s disgusting how desperate I am.

She hands the bottle to me, but I shake my head and she takes it back, placing it at her side. “God,” she scoffs, “you need to loosen up a bit. We’re in high school. Everyone does it.”

“Maybe you’re just a part of the herd.”

“Herd? Did you just compare me to a cow?”

“Moo.”

Now it’s her turn to throw dirt in my face. Specks of brown fly in the air as she lurches towards me, but the alcohol makes her sluggish. Her body pushes with all its might and her red hair flies, igniting a miniature fire over her head, but I’ve already scuttled several feet away from her before it hits me. She scowls in my direction, and I respond by sticking my tongue out. Groaning, she turns back, hair whipping behind her. I wonder how it doesn’t burn her as it touches down her back again.

For a second, I can only continue smiling at her, my pride swelling with the knowledge that she failed in her attack. But when she doesn’t turn around to face me, when she doesn’t allow me another glimpse of her golden beauty, I suddenly feel as if I’m the one being punished. The mere feet of grass between us has suddenly turned into an ocean, and we’re floating on two different continents, so unbearably far from each other. Even under this heat, without her, I feel only the dread of winter settle in my bones.

My heart aches at the loss, and I scoot myself back over. Immediately, as I come into her vicinity and feel her heat next to mine, summer returns. Her bare shoulder brushes against mine, spreading its warmth to me. Electricity dances between us where we touch, and I feel as though Zeus himself has struck me with a lightning bolt.

Her golden fingers gingerly push her hair away from her face. Once again I am in the glory of her beauty: the overwhelming freckles, the scrutinizing eyes, the arched lips. Being so close to her, I can see that her face isn’t quite symmetrical - an uneven eyebrow dances over her forehead, and I realize that she isn’t as perfect as I thought she was.

Which makes her even more human to me. Even more attainable.

Her eyes bear over my own face, searching across each and every crater of my skin. First my eyes, then my cheeks, even my lips for a fraction of a second. Finally over my dark hair. She smiles again and reaches over clumsily, almost falling over my body. “You have such pretty hair.”

“That’s not what my parents tell me,” I admit.

“It’s usually in my face.”

“Yeah, it is. But it’s still pretty. Like… you don’t really care.” Her fingers push my hair away from my face. A ripple of shock washes over me as I realize how close we are. Merely inches away from crashing into each other. “But you have an even prettier face.”

“I wouldn’t really say that,” I say bashfully, prying my eyes away from her.

“I would. It’s, like… dramatic. In my face. But in a good way.” For a second, I allow her words to soak into my skin. But then she takes another sip from her bottle, and ice conquers my chest, cooling down all my systems. How do I know she means any of this when she’s wasting away in front of my very eyes?

Her fingers detangle from my hair and lay in her lap, but her eyes never leave my face. They continue digging deeper, deeper, looking into my mind, my body, searching for some secret identity. And I let her, raising my eyes so she can get a better look at me, all of me. The eyes are the windows to the soul, after all. And I want to open them wide; I want her to climb in.

She sighs and takes another sip, and a new silence floats over us, its weight familiar around our shoulders. We sit like that for what feels like forever, staring into different suns: her, to the one above us and me, to the one in front of me.

Her eyelids flutter as she blinks the sun away. Her nostrils flare as she absorbs the air around her. Her bottom lip sinks in between her teeth. And I’m paying such close attention to her that even in the silence, each flinch, each movement feels like a sonic boom.

Which is why, when she asks, “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to kiss a girl?” the volume of her question is so loud that I feel myself disintegrating under its sheer impact.

But I know she’s drunk. She would never speak so openly like this, not if she were sober. When she’s like this, she becomes more free, more untethered, no longer in control of her actions. Reckless

It’s one of the things I want to say I hate her for. But I know that would be a lie—I couldn’t hate her if I tried.

So I refrain from complaining, and a nervous warmth bleeds over my cheeks. “I guess.”

She nods, but I can tell from her clouded eyes that she’s barely processing that information. “I’ve always wondered,” she admits, her voice slipping between her lips like velvet, smooth and rich and heavy. “Do you think it’s any different than with a boy?”

I consider her question. “Maybe not,” I admit. “All that should matter is who you’re into. I guess if you’re into girls, you’re going to like kissing girls more.” “Do you care if someone’s into girls?”

Do I care if someone’s into girls? I almost laugh at the irony. If only she knew.

“Not really,” I decide carefully. “It’s love. Why should I care?”

“Interesting,” she murmurs, still staring at me. Her eyes drop down to my lips again, and I can see the gears turning in her head, considering her options.

She tilts her head. She knits her eyebrows. She’s calculating her next move.

“Can I kiss you?”

The abruptness of her question, the pure genuinity of her words strikes me like a whip. She doesn’t offer me any sort of qualifier; she doesn’t say “just for fun” or “just for practice.” She only says “Can I kiss you,” as if there is no shame in doing so, as if this is a normal thing to ask. A flash of light bursts behind my eyes, and warmth blooms in my stomach, hotter than anything this brutal summer can offer.

Can she kiss me?

“Yes,” I beg.

I know I sound desperate. I know I sound needy. But when she looks like that, lips parted and skin glowing and hair flaming, desire takes the reins of my body. My inhibitions are powerless to stop me now.

She begins to lean in, laying her burdens slowly into my arms. Her tan limbs dangle over my neck sloppily. Despite her boldness, though, hesitance lingers in the air. It burns my skin, angers my soul. She’s stalling, scared. Even drunk, her conscience is trying to hold her back, chaining her to her morals.

Come on. What are you waiting for?

Distantly, a bird caws. A car roars past. A child screeches with joy.

Her eyes are still closed, though, and she’s leaning in and she’s waiting and waiting, and I consider initiating it once and for all, but it won’t be the same—it needs to be her. If it’s her, then I’ll know that it’s coming from her heart.

I know what I want from her. I need to know what she wants from me.

We’re a bomb, and each second is ticking down, clicking in my head. I’m closing my eyes, preparing for the explosion.

Finally, finally, her lips brush against mine. It’s a gentle kiss—no, barely even a kiss—but nevertheless it detonates the world around us. The bird cawing, the cars roaring, the children screeching—they all blur into the white noise in the midst of this explosion, and we have only each other to hold onto with all this destruction we’ve caused. We’ve caused the second Big Bang, the second universe. We have enough energy to last us millennia.

Our molecules separate and join again, connecting our bodies together. We are Hermaphroditus and Salmacis, becoming one body, one being, breathing to a single lung, beating to the same heart. I know her. I feel her. I am her.

Just being here together, in each other’s arms, is a chemical reaction waiting to explode with the right catalyst. Too much could happen in the next few seconds and destroy our entire world. Her brother could jump out of the bushes any second, a camera in hand; her maid could tip-toe into the clearing, her tray of sandwiches shivering in her arms; her mother could spontaneously return home and face the heart attack of her lifetime. The possibilities are endless. If anyone were to find out, we might as well say goodbye to each other right now and never see each other again.

But none of that matters at this moment. We’re living in secret here in her backyard. At least in this small world we have here together, we’re allowed. We’re alive.

At least she’s letting us live for a second.

But when she pulls away, summer recedes from us, giving way to ice cold winds. We are no longer one. We are separate. We are too far.

A dazed smile creeps over her features, and her eyelashes flutter in the golden sunlight. “That was fun. I’m tired now.”

That said, she flops onto the grass. A small pink smile pulls at her lips—is it prideful? flirty? just drunk?—but after a few moments, her breathing becomes steadier, and the smile disappears. Now, there is no remnant of what we’ve done, no souvenir.

And I am alone again, forced to deal with the crushing weight of my desire, the pain of knowing that she may never feel the way I do, may never understand the things she does to me.

The light catches against her hair once more, creating a halo of fire around her head. It burns bright against the green grass. I edge my finger closer, closer, and the flames lick against my fingertips. She is on fire. She is burning me up, turning me to ashes.

She won’t remember our kiss when she wakes up; she won’t remember that any of this ever happened. For the moment, I am her lover, but in a few hours, I will once again be her friend.

So I lie beside her, twirling my scarred fingers into her flaming hair, biting through the scorching heat. If I only have the next few hours to be her lover, even in secret, then I’m going to make the most of it. We can pretend. I can pretend. Just for a little bit.

Oranges

Digital

Jui Bhatia