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The raindrops fell on sidewalks that steamed from the afternoon heat. He was in high school then, fourteen years old, and it was just minutes before he had first seen her – but he didn’t meet her until a year later. (He was almost surprised, looking back on this, that he could remember this certain incident. But it was as if someone had taken the saturation of this one memory, turned it up high, and made everything wonderfully neon and bright.) Walking down the sidewalk as it poured, he could hear the musical notes raindrops make when they hit the ground. It almost sounded like piano, he thought, and he continued without an umbrella. He walked down the suburban streets, houses compact and close with each other lining the road and thought they all looked the same, to him. It usually did all look the same, though. Everyone and everything – it was the same. Essentially; everything fit in cookie cutter shapes, without even being cut in that shape. Everything was conforming. Ahead of him, when he looked up, he saw an aquamarine umbrella, a blonde haired girl holding the hand of a boy with brown hair. They walked in front of him for a few blocks, before turning into a poorer neighborhood. He stopped on the street corner, watched them continue on their way for a while. The boy turned and saw him at some point; waved and smiled a gap-toothed grin. The girl looked over her shoulder, and their eyes met for just a second. Like being hit in the stomach by a baseball during practice, just the metaphorical contact winded him. The 48

2009-10 Parallax  

Idyllwild Arts Academy Student Literature/Art Magazine 2009-10