How to Paint Our Skies

How to Be Timeless

    You smirked. Without a moment of hesitation, you separated the distance between us and grabbed my waist, crashing my lips to yours. And for a moment, it was just you and I and nothing else mattered.

    Someone coughed from behind us.

    I blushed as I saw Jeanine, her blue eyes scanning over us. You fingers remained tight on my waist, my own clinging to the lapel of your jacket. I felt your cheek, pressed against my temple. "Hello."

    "Hi," she replied, awkwardly. She turned to me, "Who's the boy?"

    You removed yourself from me, which I wasn't really a fan of. "Finland Erickson. You must be Annalise's sister, Jeanine, right?"

    "Obviously."

    "It's very nice to meet you. And thanks again for inviting me into your beautiful home," you added, smiling politely.

    She remained silent.

    You grabbed my hand. "Come on, dove."

    I reintroduced you to my mother, who was much more polite this time. You spoke to my father, who seemed to enjoy your company. Finally, I introduced you to Jeanine's fiancé, Michael. I hated Michael, since he was pompous prick, but you didn't seem to mind him too much. You met a handful of my aunts and uncles and cousins, whom you were polite and courteous, too. There was only one more person you had to meet, my brother Claude, who appeared to be running late. But that's what worried me . . . Claude was never late.

    "Relax," you told me, as I glanced at the clock again. "I'm sure he's just running late. Driving sucks at this time of year."

    But you didn't understand. Claude was the type of guy who arrived over an hour earlier, just to be on time. He was the type of guy who ironed his ties, because he felt that it made him appear neater. He was the type of guy who mowed his lawn every few days, because he actually enjoyed the scent of freshly mowed grass. I tried to explain it to you.

    "I'm sure he's fine," you assured me repeatedly.

    "Claude is Claude," my father told you, trying to add to my point. "Claude's a child prodigy; he completed high school at the age of ten, university at fourteen with a degree in criminology. A couple years later, he decided it wasn't for him, regardless of the job opportunities; by seventeen, he had returned to college to pursue journalism. And now, here he is, ten years later; Claude currently works as a reporter for the New York Times."

     And now you see what I put up with. There was no wonder that I have never been able to compete with the Dream Team: Claude (child prodigy) and Jeanine (model).

    You opened your mouth to reply, but I never got to hear what you're about to say. You're interrupted by giggling. And Claude.

    He came in the most shocking way I could've ever imagined. He was absolutely, without a doubt, wasted. I have never seen anyone so drunk in my life. He was wearing sweatpants and a Chicago Bears' tee-shirt underneath his jacket, his face was adorned with dirt and his blonde hair was matted and greasy. Claude's arm was curled around a girl, who was practically supporting him, as he giggled at something he was pointing at in the distance.  

    The girl was in a similar state that he was; dirty and tattered. To a regular person, she appeared quite plain, but I found her pretty in an unconventional sort of way; her hair was a knotty mess of auburn, her eyes matching dots with a narrow symmetrical face and a lithe figure. Under her jacket, she wore dirty leggings with a Maroon 5 tee-shirt.