5/15/11

Crush
By Josh Sampson


I attended a Crush on the eve of summer. It was not my intent to go; nevertheless, my mother in all of her optimism thought I should. So, I went.

The weather was quite warm that night, and the feverish temperature in the hall attested to it. Upon entrance I saw the crowd as it was, prancing in circles with an air of fierce sophistication.

They were ensconced in the dim lighting of Basil Hall. Nevertheless, even without illumination they were all similar. The ladies wore dresses that exploded outward at the waist, while the men wore decadent suits that followed their posture in rigid, definite lines—all doppelgangers, save for one.

I conjectured he was only twenty-three, but I could tell he was tall, almost haunting in a fashion, and completely disparate.

He stood on a lofty balcony decorated with lush plants and stone ledges. He stood facing the moon which had risen just o'er a hill on the horizon on that fine evening in June.

I watched him surreptitiously, weaving through the crowd like a lion stalking its prey, yet I offered no enmity as such a truculent beast.

I came to him by the doors; the moon glowed on me, lighting the scenery with a milky atmosphere. I could see his black hair in the moonlight, and his astute posture gave way to some unforeseen intelligence I had yet to know. Even without knowing him he enthralled me, yet I knew not why; perhaps it was his disparity.

“Good evening,” I whispered as the crowd behind me moved like a body of water, breaking itself with the tide of music.

He turned toward me with such a sullen-eyed expression that I at first mistook him for a lurid creature. However, no emotion reached its fruition. His face was indeed beautiful. He had soft, yet pallid skin, and not even the slightest aberration touched his features. His dark hair was shoulder length and when he smiled he stole my heart.

“Good evening to you,” he said, in a voice so soft and clear my soul leapt fancifully like a blooming flower. “I am Elias Serling,” he said. “What is your name?”

“My name,” I said, and my mind erased in a frantic wave of hysteria.

My name is love, I thought, and I have found you.

“Daniel,” I spoke up. “Daniel Smith.”

He showed me a lithe smile, and I again felt the deviant tug of emotion at my heart.

“Daniel,” he said, appearing concerned. “Will you walk with me?” he held out his hand languidly, indicating a set of stone stairs to our right.

“I would be honored,” I replied brightly.

We walked down the stairs and followed an overgrown trail that stretched thinly to a grove beyond. The grove itself was decorated in randomly placed hedges of fine characteristics: flowers hung over vetch, which had grown so heavily that it hung lower by the weight of itself.

The grove was green, I remember, as green as the ripened husk of a watermelon, and it alluded to the sweet hidden fruit just under the surface. We strode by a lilac bush which assaulted me with a perfumed scent; a lovely smell I always thought.

I paused there to pick a lilac flower, smelled it, and handed it to my companion in a flirting jest. He obliged and placed the flower in his lapel; he kept it safe for me, so it would not end.

The trees were nearly in full bloom. They blew no air that night, but merely watched us walk nigh with their own special recognition. The grass was high, nearly to our ankles, and shined with a glassy coat of midnight dew. It was a lovely evening for a walk.

It was while in this grove I noticed what a precocious young man he was. I say this carefully but it was what I felt, for he spoke of such labored topics as true-love and heartache as though he'd lived through each one a thousand times.

When he looked to me, I could tell he wanted reassurance, and who was I to deny my fleeting love? However, I felt as though my empty expression did nothing to mend his obviously ailing heart. So, at each urge of reassurance I felt more perplexed, until I finally quieted him with a tender kiss.

We stood no longer as two separate entities, but as one, sharing a physical touch that was far more expressive than any word could describe; or, at least, more than any precocious young man could offer.

I felt his tremulous lips on mine, even as we parted, and I knew he was afraid. It was not of me, though, or even of a kiss, but he was scared of because. And, because was often the most frightening of all words, for there was no reason behind it, or logic for that matter. Now, I attest it was a dangerous time for such an encounter, and perhaps that was what frightened him. The courts did not smile lightly on our romance. However, I did not care, for I was in love, as silly as it was, and I felt no compunction on the matter.

He touched my hair and looked upon me with such regard my heart nearly burst. We stood a while longer in the grove, under the moonlight, waiting for the Crush to end. Yet, I don't think either of us wanted it to end, nor did we want to leave from our embrace.

But we did, and I have not seen him since.

It's been nearly a decade since that grove, and since that kiss. Some nights I go out alone to where it happened; especially on those moonlit nights when I can feel his heartbeat running with mine in our quivering arms. It is on those nights, with the moon glowing vibrantly, that I think of him—my crush.


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Josh Sampson is a journalist and writer of short fiction in Northern Michigan.