She walked aimlessly sometimes on harsh summer nights when paint seemed to seep from the gaps in the clouds and when the heat drew emotion from her pores. Her body drove her to it, never bothering to control her mind when it seemed to be urging her nimble bones out the door, nor did her mindless parents ask for justification to where she went on those days when the clocks eased past midnight. It all seemed to be silently understood, at least to her.
She would wisp past the two sitting on the couch, her mothers both with flowers in their hair and heavy books against their palms. They were characters, ones of late night talks and raw love. They filled their minds with lovely nonsense and their mouths with varieties of sweet herbal teas. Love was shown with elegant touches and poetry. To Amelia, their love was simple. To her it was the only way it could be described.
On these walks (too short to call adventures) the world seemed to speak to her in subtle voices. Trees swayed, grass following, surrounding her strolling body with motion. Unseen creatures sent her messages in low croaks and chirps. She found peace within the voices she willed to understand. Sometimes when the moon hung low, her walks would intersect with a boy not that far down the street (another reason she subconsciously eased her body on these trips). He seemed simple as well, his small house sitting aside a not so small lake. The walls painted blue, the roof a stark white. His hair a soft blonde, his eyes a deep brown.
She'd never spoken his name, really never wanted to. She found it mysterious, so she choose to keep him nameless, for sometimes, he seemed like a red, others a blue.
She fell in love with the ideas she dressed him with. That is, until her nights seemed to slip him by her side.
