You’d think that with all of the many riches I possess, succumbing to the bee’s sting that is your pity wouldn’t have been the overly pressing reality of my midsummer. Yet now, as I stand under the soaking fury of the thunderstorm, I realize that I forgot to put my wetsuit on.
So much for the optimism, I say with the cynical tone I know you hate, and you look at me through the hail, all blue eyes and blue balls. The red rose you gifted me had sprung in June and now can we hear August, the Reaper of the months, calling.
It’s my fault, of course, for I should have known this would happen; you like the Last Supper, I like the Creation of Adam. You’re a Slytherin and I’m a Ravenclaw. You like the French pastries with their cloying flakes, and I like the cool release of lemon sorbet… But isn’t that how the whole attraction thing is meant to work?
The flash of red lightning rips across the sky, illuminating your face in pink as deep as the pink of our frustration. Momentarily, you sigh, and I find myself sighing with you.
Who said it got easier as you got older? Oh, to be the sweet seventeen again.