Tuesday, 26 February 2013
A boy stepped out into the rain with a lit cigar in his mouth. The boy didn't look like a man, and he didn't look like a boy. He had recently learned something very important, that he would probably forget later on in life:
It's fun to smoke a cigar while on a walk in a summer storm.
In fact, it's one of the most simple, fun things you can do with freedom.
The boy was eighteen years old. And he had another advantage going for him. He had what he assumed to be the love of his life next to him; a tiny blond girl. Who also had a cigar in her mouth. Her hair was starting to curl in the rain, and the way that the water rolled off of her high cheek bones made his stomach churn tight.
A crack of lighting. Not foreboding. Delightful.
They held hands and talked about rotoscoping. They were in animation school together. They looked up at the thunderous sky, and wished they could truly capture this exact storm and feeling with their art. They knew that they couldn't, but it would be fun to try. That's the point of things most times. Trying.
The tiny girl looked at the boy and saw the future. The adventure of the world and the possibilities involved with their courtship. She saw them on flights to Europe, engrossed in land and culture that lasts for longer than a hundred years. To experience the rebellion of farting in front of the Mona Lisa, and to get drunk on cheap wine and make love in hostels.
The boy knew the future that she saw. But the boy was scared of that world. He was still just a boy, he didn't want to grow up, not for her, not yet. Not enough time had been given to figure out what it meant to simply be alive in this world, why add to it the stresses of more world with less answers? He wouldn't go with her. They both knew this. They were going to expire, because she was becoming a woman, because she wanted to. And he remained a boy, because he wanted to.
So they held hands. Smoke billowing out around them. Walking in the rain.