Jane & The Shooting Star

Patrick & Jane have known each other forever, growing up in a town as small as there own, they grew close together from a small age. Patrick, desperately in love with his best friend, wishes upon a shooting star one night four years prior, and is still dealing with the aftermath. Under the impression that Jane could never love him back, he tries to battle with his erratic mother, failed attempts at jealousy, and the true meaning of what fate is all about.

Short story, rated Yellow for strong language.
© Copyright ‘Jane & The Shooting Star’ by GeorgiaLM 2013

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2Chapter Jane “It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight.” ― Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita: I stand outside Tricks bedroom window contemplating whether to knock on the pane or not. I can see it all in my minds eye, reaching up, hitting my knuckles against the thin glass, watching it rattle with the contact. Then his face will appear, his eyes, big and brown, always sad, staring back at me in surprise. Trick once told me that all poetry is sad. Then I looked into his eyes and I saw the truth in there. His eyes are like poems and I could spend all day staring at them, drinking in all the patterns of words, all the sadness. I shift on my feet, then eventually do what I’ve been thinking about and knock against his window. I could use the front door, I know, I’m not ignorant. But it would go against tradition. When we were younger, I used to sneak over to his house and climb through the window. He was always awake, as though he was waiting for something, maybe he was always waiting for me. Tricks face appears and it makes me smile this small smile that I only reserve for him. Because Trick is special. I love him more than I could love anyone else, more than my mom or dad or sister, or myself. It’s the strong subtle love, the best kind, the connection that can last lifetimes. Sometimes when I get in my most terrible moods, Trick is the only one who can get me to snap from it, that’s how strong he is. How strong our love is. “Jane.” Trick says after he’s pulled up the window. He breaths out my name, like a short whisper that sends tingles up my spine. His lips curve around the letters and wrap them up in his smooth voice like it’s a secret only meant for our ears. “Hey Trick.” I put my hands on the sill and hitch my leg up and over so I’m in his bedroom. Ducking my head under the sill I give Trick a small peck on the cheek, which I haven’t done in forever. He closes his eyes at the contact and it makes my lips tingle. It makes me think of our other kiss, when we were younger and smaller and more vulnerable to change. We’d kissed on a night like this, on the beach, under the fading euphoria of a fallen star. I’d wished for love, and Trick had wished for me. My kiss, my lips. Me. He wanted me then. But then I got scared, I don’t know what of, maybe that darkness, or the spark of our mingling lips. Or when he told me I was beautiful in his soft and smooth voice and for a moment, a single second, the time span of a falling star, I’d let myself believe that his words were true. Then I’d run away because I guess that’s what I’m good at, and he’d chased after me, which has always surprised me. That he stayed, that he ran when I ran, that he didn’t mention our kiss again because somehow he knew it was something that I wasn’t comfortable with yet. He’s my safety, my shooting star. My wish granted. I look around Trick’s bedroom, which hasn’t changed in years. It’s still small and over stuffed, crowded with too many books and too many CD’s. I love it. It reminds me of Trick in some way, with it’s stubbornness to change. 2.5 Patrick I watch Jane move to my bed, hips swaying, eyes locked on mine. My cheeks still on fire from her small peck, and it makes me feel stupid for going weak in the knees for a girl who doesn’t even want me. I’ve become mystified with the shapes of her legs and her hips and her chest, but I’m trying not stare, so I fidget a bit and look at my books. I pull one down from the shelf, it’s the Emily Dickinson book of poems again, which makes me smile. The good thing about Jane and myself is, is that we’ve developed a type of silent pact, that we don’t have to fill a room with talk all the time. It doesn’t have to be awkward, it can just be peaceful, quiet. It’s really the best type of quietness, maybe because it’s with Jane. I can hear her breath on the air, I can hear her lungs expanding, her mouth taking in all the dust particles. And then I start thinking about her mouth. The curve and the texture, and the shade of rose that they are. I think about whether kissing her would be the same as it was all those years ago. I think about having sex with her on my childhood bed and the thought makes my stomach twist. Maybe because I want it really bad. But it’s not as though that’s all I think about, I know that’s what a lot of guys always think about, and I want it. A lot. Definitely with Jane. But it’s not the only thing I want. I want something more than that with Jane, and you can call me a girl for not just wanting to just fuck, then ditch her. I’m not like that. I want to have a connection, I want a life with her. It scares me sometimes, but it keeps me going. “You like Emily Dickinson, right?” I ask her, she’s leaning against my headboard, her legs spread out on the blankets. “Yeah.” she answers, eyeing the book in my hand. “Is that her’s?” “Yeah, I remember you showed me something in here once, so I picked another one ages ago, that I though you might like...” I trail off, like always, sounding stupid, being stupid. I’m just stupid, full stop. “Read it to me.” She says. I know it sounds rude, the way you’d interpret it, like she’s demanding it. But Jane has a way of demanding, without saying please, but still sounding polite. I think it’s the softness of her voice, and the question and innocence in her blue eyes that I often drown in. “Okay.” So I read it to her. In the same kind of way she read to me, in the bedroom, the sunlight fading. But this time, this poem is about what the pain is like. "Pain has an element of blank, It cannot recollect When it began, or if there was A time when it was not. It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain. " Jane stares at me for a long time, which makes me feel self conscious. In the short span of time I worry if it was a bad poem, and I curse Emily Dickinson silently. “It’s beautiful.” Jane says finally, which makes me smile. She reciprocates it, but her’s is kind of a sad sort of smile, and then she says. “...and sad. Like your eyes.” I look at her, and I must look a bit confused because she continues. “The words in all these books,” she gestures to the shelves. “You’ve read them all, right?” I nod my head. “So you’ve seen them through your eyes, and somehow, the people who look at you, and I mean properly, they see them too. Your eyes are poems, and they’re beautiful and sad, and I love them.”
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