• It was a quiet walk to the park. The road was practically deserted, as usual. The entire population of 185 people were probably all in their homes or someone else's home, gorging themselves and talking about how thankful they are for whatever s**t life gave them this year. Personally, I was thankful to be holding his hand as he lead me inside the fenced in plot of grass and jungle gyms that we call a park. Thankful to my core.
    For reason I found it hard to look up into his face. While he sat on one piece of plastic blue playing equipment I just sat on the ground beside it and rested my head on his leg. His black jeans were already muddy from who knows what. I reminded myself that boys will be boys and ignored it, closing my eyes and enjoying the sun on my face and his hand in my hair. I knew he was looking down at me, and so I retreated into myself just a little bit more.
    I was afraid that, if he looked into my eyes, he'd read all of the horrible things there, the awful attitude, the small cruelties, the snide comments and the deplorable actions. He would read them, and be disgusted. He wouldn't see the side of me that I show him. I keep him carefully in the dark about the subtle dark parts. Naturally, he knows that I'm not the most moral creature in the world, but it's a vague notion to him. He's never seen me in action. He wouldn't realize how much he's changed me, either.
    Or maybe he hasn't changed me; maybe he's just dulled me. The hatred or bitterness or whatever one wants to call it that fuels me isn't so sharp when I'm with him, and it takes a while for it to become keen again. He's a peaceful spirit to be around.
    The park was also peaceful. It was deserted, and I shifted to give him room to lay down beside me on the thick rye grass. The grass was still green even though winter is approaching. It showed no wear, unlike the grass in the fields that has turned brown already. He laid down and extended an arm for me to use as a pillow, which I did. I rested beside him and put my hand on his heart, keeping my eyes closed as I counted the beats. He was warm, and his breathing even. He could have probably fallen asleep. I could have, too.
    Instead I just moved so that my head was on his chest and I could feel as well as hear his heartbeat. I felt his lips on my hair but still I didn't look up. Soon his insistent finger was under my chin and I was looking up, into his eyes, without warning. I'll never, ever get used to how his eyes are different colors all the time. That day, they were breathtaking. They were the lightest gray with the most amazing hazel-gold rings. They were so honest and so caring. I couldn't help it; I bit my lip and blinked rapidly. It was hard to keep eye contact knowing what he might possibly see in mine. I'm hoping the good feelings surfaced to the top, such as the love and devotion I have for him. I'm hoping that the pain and the vague hatred for everything around me sunk to the bottom and stayed there.
    He didn't see those things that time, but what will happen when he does? Will he even notice? Will he ever see tears or that glassy look that my mother does at times? And if he does, will he still want to hold me? As of now he thinks I'm glad and carefree, and I guess with him I am. He holds a happy girl. Will he also hold a sad one? All I know is that I would've been fine dying the other day, in his arms on the rye grass while everything was dull and warm.