She can't seem to help it though.

She traces the pattern done in a chocolate brown, the way the light hits it reminding her of the sunlight on his hair. She'd spent a lot of time watching him, his hair blowing in the breeze coming off the water, the sunlight glinting off the reddish highlights as he laughed, running his fingers through the thick mess.

Shaking her head, she steps back and tries to view it objectively, finding it hard not to notice that the tan background has the slight bronze tint of his skin. He'd never taken his shirt off in front of her - at least not for a long time - but she'd caught him unaware one time as he'd walked up the steps from below deck, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The black lines that trail down the lower left side of the mural are like a trail of fingertips over his skin.

She blinks, coming out of her thoughts and putting distance between herself and the painting. She has things to do, things that need to be done before it's too late to do them. Grabbing her bag off the floor, she shoulders it and heads toward the door, only looking back once, wondering if he'd done the same.

ASK ME TO STAY

They were painted in blood red, as if his heart had spilled over, overflowed with…something. He stares at the words until they blend together, meaning nothing, looking wrong. It would have been amusing if he'd spelled something wrong, his heartfelt endeavor cancelled out by improper grammar.

People move around him, not noticing him even though he's standing in the middle of the small field in front of the wall. The Wall. It's capitalized in his head, something ominous like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

He knows there are whispers about what it means, people wondering who'd written the words, the pleading. He wonders if they romanticize it or fantasize about it. Is that woman over there at the café, staring somewhat wistfully in this direction wishing that the man she loved had written the words there? Is that guy who looks this way wondering what girl could possibly have wanted him so much she'd publicize her emotion?

He sighs and shakes his head, knowing he has somewhere to be. Standing here, staring at the words…none of that is going to change anything. None of it is going to make it different. He wonders if he'd known that when he painted them.

He's never felt freedom like this before. He thought it would be painful, but it's been easy. Pushing them both away like they mean nothing. Hiding inside himself so no one can seem to find him. It hasn't hurt at all.

Except at night, when all he can do is think about the first time he really saw her. And during the day when the sunlight catches the hair of some other girl that he knows isn't her and his heart still speeds up, not caring what his brain is saying. And at dusk when he just aches because she's not there. And at sunrise when he drags himself out of bed after another nearly sleepless night, tossing and turning because he can't stop dreaming about her.

It hasn't hurt at all.

He wonders sometimes about why he saw her, really saw her. It had happened more than once and sometimes something had come out of it, sometimes more than expected, more often less. There were so many things that had made him notice her throughout his lifetime.

Sighing, he stands up and moves over to the railing, staring down at the water as it moves below him. The waves are endless, like his pain.

Except it doesn't hurt at all.

She lifts her bedroom window and moves through it into the night. She's done this more times than she can remember, but it feels wrong this time, like she knows she shouldn't be doing this. She shouldn't be doing this.

But that doesn't stop her as she looks for her bike, digging it out from under the piles in the small storage shed, ignoring the strange smells of turpentine and oil and gas from the lawnmower as she gets it free and sets it out on the lawn.

She hasn't ridden in years and she feels it as soon as she starts moving, rarely used muscles protesting the motion. It's dark, but she's not afraid of anything but what she's doing. She knows the way by heart, a cliché she'd never really known the meaning of until recently.

She stops before she gets where she wants to be, waiting for something, though she's not sure what it is. That's a lie, she tells herself silently. She knows what she's waiting for, but she knows it's not going to happen, not going to come.

He's not going to come.

He's been sitting there for hours, waiting. Not for anything in particular, at least that he'll admit to, but he's still waiting. He hears the whispers about this too, knowing what they're talking about and not having to imagine. It's obvious they feel bad for him, sorry for him.

He wonders why.

He sees a light off in the distance and thinks of her, hating that she's always the first thing that comes to mind. He wonders if it would be easier to find someone else, or if he just needs to accept that they're fated, just like he and she are fated. He supposes that for every perfect pairing, there's bound to be someone hurt. He's just not sure which one is perfect.

Him and her? Or him and her? Or are they both fooling themselves into thinking that she loves either of them? Fooling themselves that they love her?

He shakes his head, laughing at himself. He knows he loves her. He just doesn't know how she feels about him. Or him. Or anything anymore. He used to think he knew exactly how she thought. He used to tease her about it, how he could read her thoughts, give her a hard time about things because she was always so serious.

How serious is she now?

He stands up, unable to sit any longer. Sitting makes him ache for action, want something.

Want her.

He thinks he can sense her, smell her. Thinks she's closer than before. Something about her is ingrained in him, and he's not quite sure how it happened. Fate, he supposes, laughing at himself. The three of them are always all about fate.

ASK ME TO STAY

He thinks about the words, unable to get them out of his mind. There's something demanding in them, even though they're a request, a plea, a last chance. But he supposes all last chances are demanding. All the ones he's heard in his life have been. Ultimatums and demands disguised as pretty words, dressed up as if they're not something more.

Laying back, he looks up at the sky and the moon, counting the stars. There's grass beneath him and sand, shifting as he changes position and searches the constellations. He finds the North Star first, because it's always the easiest. Maybe the most meaningful.

He remembers once when they were in school and they had to read Peter Pan. She'd insisted on reading it aloud to them, all of them sprawled out on his bed, different levels of attention devoted to her voice. He had barely been listening, daydreaming in his own head.

Whereas he'd hung on every word, listening to the halting rhythm until she'd gotten into the flow of the book, gotten goosebumps as she'd read their flight pattern. "Second star to the right and straight on till morning." It had all seemed romantic and dramatic and so different from his life.

He wonders if that's when he first felt it, felt her. He hadn't noticed anything, hadn't felt anything different. But things had changed. Of course, she herself had always talked about how things changed. All the while protesting that they never would.

He wonders if she was lying to herself as well.

He watches her move through the night and the darkness. Somehow he'd known she'd be here. Fate again, he supposes. Or maybe it was just the fact that she'd come here every night and stared at the wall.

The Wall.

He wonders what she's thinking. He used to always know. Now he can't seem to read her at all. She just stands there and stares as if it's going to change. Or maybe it does change into something else after a while. A message only she can decipher? Maybe she sees his emotion in it. Maybe she knows what each brush stroke meant. Did he paint that in there? His heart?

He'd always been unlucky when it came to his heart.

The wind is blowing, moving the grass around as she moves to the scaffolding that she'd borrowed from the school drama department, promising to return it by the time summer was over. He wonders if that meant it would take her that long to paint whatever was in her head or if she wasn't sure what she wanted to paint yet and wanted the time.

He can see her shoulders move, and at first he thinks she's sighing, the vast exhalation of air affecting her whole body. But then he realizes she's crying, her shoulders bowed with the weight of her tears.

He takes a step forward, wanting to comfort her, then stops, knowing he's one of the last two people on earth she wants to see right now.

The handle of the paint can is cold against her bare palm. Even though it's summer, the wind seems to cut through her clothes, stabbing into her skin like knives. She bends down and opens the can, pouring the paint into the small metal pan she has to work with. Her roller is pristine, never used before. All the brushes are new, because she couldn't use anything she already had. The job was too important…

She thought of the paintbrush he'd given her and felt another flood of tears. And some things were just too tainted. Grabbing the roller tightly, she dipped it in the paint and rolled it, covering the entire surface. Turning back to face the wall, she lifted it and froze, standing there, unable to move.

Paint drops dripped at her feet slowly, thickly, like the pulse of blood in her ears, in her heart, in his heart when it had been pressed against hers.

ASK ME TO STAY

An hour later, she lifted the brush to the brick surface and let it smooth down the wall, swallowing up the words he never said.

He's standing now, the stars blurred by the tears in his eyes. He'd hoped that the pain would stop at some point, that he'd be able to forget what he'd seen, heard. Forget all the things he didn't want to believe.

The night was fading, changing to sunlight and he watched the rays come up over the edge of the water, inhaling the strange scent of the ocean and the sun, as if they were really joined, the boiling heat rising out of the bitter cold, the steam of dawn the product of their union.

He shakes his head, a smile on his face. He's been out here all night and it's affected his brain. He's thinking like him, now. Romance and sex, both tarred with the same brush. Running his hand over his face, he clears the threatening sleep from his eyes. The wood is hard under his legs and he wonders how he managed to stay in the same place all night.

Then he remembers she was all it took.

She holds him in place, keeps him running without getting anywhere. Not that running is what he wants. Closer. He wants closer to her. Closer.

He stands up and moves to the railing, looking down. He wonders about the water that separates them, wonder if she looks at it too. He wonders what she's thinking right now. Wonders if she's thinking about him, or if her choice put him out of her mind as easily as it put him out of her life.

The sun is rising and she stands back, surveying her work. She doesn't feel the cold anymore, doesn't notice that her hands are red from the wind and white from the paint. Nothing matters as she stares up at the vast expanse of white.

The words are gone. She sets the brush in the bucket, knowing that she'll throw it away after tonight. Its bristles are worn, the memory tearing it apart more than the rough surface she'd moved it over all night. White covers red, enough coats to keep even the slightest pink tinge from bleeding through.

She tilts her head slightly, the rising sun coming up over the buildings behind her, the first rays falling on the white then on the deep blue. She'd seen it in the store and bought it, not even thinking as she pulled the cash from her pocket, not caring that Bessie would give her hell for not buying the groceries she'd sent her to buy.

It matches his eyes. It matches her heart. She closes her eyes for a moment then opens them, focusing on the whole now, not just the part. The white was brilliant, shining in the sun, the blue deep enough to draw her in.

STAY

She grabs her jacket from the ground and heads home, knowing the lease is up today and her plea will be gone by tomorrow. Not that it matters. He's already gone.

8/22/02