romance · seasons · short story

April Love

September pulled April into his arms and brushed the starlings from her rat’s nest of long golden hair.

She looked into his eyes which burned like a bonfire from a Friday night football rally.

“I don’t care what everyone says,” she cried pressing her cheek against his brown suede criss-cross laced-up kinda Jim Morrisony shirt covered chest. “I don’t want you to leave. I’ll just be rainy and cold. People will just have to get over never knowing how to dress for any of my 30 days.”

September winced. Her promise to have him stay thrilled him, but he knew the repercussions were too steep for the general population.

“April,” he soothed. “April, I must go. I love you, you know it’s true, but you have to go and make peace with my archenemy May so that warm dry weather becomes the law of the land.”

April knew he was right, and even though she hated that stupid son-of-a-bitch May, she had signed a contract that bound her to working with him towards preparing for world famous Hollywood tycoon Summer’s eventual takeover.

“Will you call me?” she asked, tiny blue forget-me-not tears falling from her eyes.

“Of course I’m going to call you. You’ll get sick of me calling you. You’ll be like, I am so sick of September calling me, I wish his phone would fall into the toilet and stop working and he doesn’t have an upgrade any time soon so he can’t get a new phone to call me sick of me calling you.”

“You could always just borrow a phone or buy another one like on eBay or something,” she told him.

September smiled. April smiled back.

Then he bent to kiss her and it was like a giant mashing together of toasted marshmallows and Easter Peeps. Sticky. Sweet. Messy.

When they pulled apart, strands of moist marshmallow hung between them like a gooey bridge.

September wiped it away with the back of his hand and dragged the residue across his jeans.

He winked at her then picked up his guitar and walked to the gravel edge of the Seasons freeway where he stuck his thumb up out in the air.

And all the starlings that were in April’s hair started flapping their wings til they lifted her like a cloud into the air and she began to fly away.

As they passed over September’s head, she called out

“Don’t you look up my skirt, you hippie!”

But he did anyway, just to make her laugh.

Couldn’t see anything though.

Damn birds got in the way.

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