by June Decker
The cool fall air that evening served as a contrast to the red and yellow trees. It was Friday night—school had just ended and it was just enough into November that you could feel the cold creeping under your skin.
The skatepark was surrounded by a large green field, engulfed by burning autumn trees. I loved how the green grass was sprinkled with red and yellow leaves, as if someone had grabbed them all up in their hands and scattered them like pieces of confetti.
The sky was still blue, but the light was fading. Me and two other girls sat on a bench by the ramps, talking and laughing as if we weren’t watching the boys.
The sound of wheels was loud around us. The boys wore their baggy jeans and unbuttoned plaid flannels, all movement, all sweat, all swearing, cursing and cheering as if they weren’t watching us.
That evening, just like every evening, all I cared about was Tyler. He was my favorite, because he never smiled too big, and never talked too much. I felt like he floated above the rest of them, never smug and always listening, never bragging, even though he was the best of all of them. He was the best on the vert ramp, and he looked like he was never afraid. He would try a trick all night, sweating and panting and falling. Some nights he’d throw his board down and leave without saying goodbye to any of us. Some nights he would stay until after we all left. On those nights, I would always be the last to leave. We never asked him how late he stayed, but the next day, whatever trick he was sweating over, he would land it.
He was my favorite, but I could never convince myself to say a word to him. The fear in my gut always held me off to the side, and I would just watch. He never seemed to mind.
It was one of those nights that I knew he would be at the park all night. While the other boys worked on their kickflips and other nonsense, I knew that Tyler was trying something new. I could tell by the way he focused, that complete and utter focus on the board and landing it just right. He must have fallen a hundred times, but I never heard a curse from him.
The day got darker, and the park emptied. The streetlights gave the park an orange hue. There were no noises except wheels, back and forth, leaving the pavement and coming back down.
I sat looking at the sky, listening, when the sound of wheels stopped. I looked back at him as he snapped his board into his hand. He began to walk over to me, head down, blonde hair in his face, and in that moment I felt like my pounding heart was going to come through my throat and out of my mouth.
He sat down next to me on the bench and looked at me. I’m sure I looked shocked, wide-eyed and silent. He didn’t react to that, but asked, straight and simple, “Why do you watch just me?”
“Oh…” I managed to whisper. I laughed quietly, shaking myself out of my stupor. Then I stopped, and bit my lips in embarrassment. The answer was very simple to feel, but it wasn’t so simple to say.
He looked at my face for a few moments, waiting for me. It felt like a stillness that lasted much longer than it did. I still couldn’t speak. I looked down, intimidated by his eyes.
He put his hand on my arm and leaned in to kiss me. I let him. The cold autumn wind rustled our hair, and I knew that this moment spoke louder than words ever needed to.
June Decker is a future MFA candidate in fiction at Bowling Green State University. Her work has appeared in Neon Origami Literary Magazine. She lives in Ohio with her fiancée and their many pets.
Original photo by Claiton Conto on Pexels, digitally altered by On Sunday.