At the dining table with your parents, you eat your Victoria sponge cake and listen, half heartedly, to the childhood story your mother tells.
"How cute he was . . . one time, James and I took him to a festival. He was only two or less than that and he wore these little red wellies on his feet. I remember at one point he was walking and he tripped and he cried and I carried him in my arms until he fought to get away."
I smile with a mouthful of jam. "I know how that is. Always a bit stubborn."
When I look your way again, you're flushed. You swallow and retaliate, "Come on, then. You make me sound worse than I am."
Your mother and father laugh. I rub your knee under the table and hum with joy when I feel your palm caress my knuckles. You are a contradiction: loving and kind, kissing my forehead as we relax outside, but also irritable, complaining about the dewy grass and the wet patches on your slacks.
Reading your horoscope makes me believe it's the Capricorn sun and Cancer moon combination. Cardinal opposites, pulling in different directions.
"Thank you for the cake, mum," you say. I'm broken from my reverie. Every one has finished eating and I take their plates to the kitchen. Our plan today, even in the bare bone chill, is to leave the suburbs and meander through the shops.
When I rejoin everyone, you're hugging your father and pulling away to rub your thumb over a beautiful wristwatch. You put it on and set the time before noticing me in the doorway.
"You're ready?" You ask. Your soft eyes, so much like your mom's, blink at me. It's difficult to believe you're already twenty one. You have a child-like trance about you, the way you hold and cherish your loved ones. And then there is that elderly streak, where I find you sitting with afternoon tea, scribbling in your pocket diary to keep track of the week's events.
"Ready," I reply. I offer my hand to you. We say goodbye to your parents and I lead you from the house, wrapping my arm tight with yours as we walk down the pathway to my car.
I turn the heat on and we sit a bit to warm up. You lose your corduroy coat into the backseat.
"I was thinking . . ." you begin. "Could we maybe visit that instrument shop down the ways? There's a pick guard I've been looking at recently."
"The pearlescent one?" I ask.
You grin with mild surprise. "Yes, that's the one."
"I had to have it shipped. When I went to buy it, every one had sold out. It should come sometime soon."
I pull onto the wet road and feel your gaze on me. "You're special. Thank you."
My chest flutters with warmth. The sweet strawberry jam from your birthday cake is lingering in my molars.
"I — you mean an awful lot to me, Jimmy," I'm finally able to say.
You lean over in the car and peck my cheek. I drive the rest of the way, giddy and at ease, while you talk to me about your sessions and the way you feel very important when sound engineers call you at home to set up times. I'm in awe of you, in the simplest of ways, and if you let me, I'd have you forever.
For konstantina_xml I hope you enjoyed this one!