Lemon Boy

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Lemon Boy. You didn't know his name. No one did. He was the outcast. The weed everyone picked from their garden. Expect that weed would grow back every year.

He was nasty and sour. No one got close to Lemon Boy. He was the bitterest guy around. He smelt of cigarettes and alcohol while sporting hair the color of mint. He was the anomaly of the town.

His tough demeanor and snarky attitude always pushed everyone away. Even you. Yet something drew you to him. The way he carried himself, he always exuded an aura of confidence and pride even though everyone else only saw the face and attitude of a delinquent, you saw the definition of true freedom.

You saw what you didn't have. You saw the freedom, the way he walked, the way he talked, the way he dressed. From his messy mint locks to his dirty leather boots he didn't care. He didn't have the burden of fitting to a standard. He set his own standards.

At the cost of those around him. He still set them. He didn't care if he was alone. He cared that he was free. Or so you thought. More so what you believed. What could you know? You were the bystander from afar who watched with awe whenever he visited the town once a year.

Why did he choose to come back to this town where people avoid him? You didn't know. Why he only stayed for one day before setting off on his bike again? You didn't know.

His bike. You had always dreamt of sitting on the end of that bike, with your arms wrapped around his waist as the two of you rode off into the sunset. Away from here, away from this little town. Off to where it was free. Off to a place where you could be carefree.

You sat at the front of your porch, the sun delightful, trees green and wind light as you peered over at the small road that trickled throughout the town. Today was the day Lemon Boy visited town. How did you know? He always came after the springs first showers. The day after it had rained and the sun was out. He never failed to show.

As if given a cue, he appeared from the trees. Normally he'd fly down the small street, but this time was different. This time he was walking as he had his hands wrapped around the handles of the bike. His face one of exhaustion as he stumbled along with the bike. It's front tire flat.

You bit your lip. This was your chance. Chance for what you weren't exactly sure, but you weren't going to let this moment slip. You wanted to get to know Lemon Boy.  Slipping on your rain boots, with light steps you walked to your front gate.

"Need help with that?"  Your voice a little weak, teeth nibbling the bottom of your lip as you peered at the man.

His mint hair stuck to his forehead, his chest heaving and his glare heavy. The tattoos decorating his neck peering at you from the collar of his shirt, his thigh peeking through the rips in his jeans and his leather boots beaten and dirty. Knuckles red as they wrapped around the bikes handles.

"No, I don't." He glared, his gaze icy. He bit his lip, taking in your wholesome appearance. Your simple white tee and skirt refreshing to him. He swabbed his gums with his tongue, his piercing lightly tickling the wet flesh.

You refused to let the opportunity slip. "Let me help you with that, it seems heavy." Opening the gate you walked up to him, hands wrapping around one of the bike's beaten handles.

His dark eyes giving you a glare. "Why? Just so I can end up doing most of the work?" Lightly he swatted your hands away. "Runoff and let me do this on my own." His voice gruff and cold.

"Let me help." You held your ground, determined.

After swatting your hands away a few times he gave in. Together the two of you trudged, bike trailing behind the two of you. A silent walk. "Where are you going?"

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