They sat, side by side, on the couch. His feet were planted on the floor, hands resting by his sides. She had her legs folded underneath her. She was leaning slightly toward him due to her chosen position, hands in her lap. They both stared at the TV, but to be honest, she hadn't the faintest idea what she was watching. Her back was stiff, but she couldn't come up with a way to shift her weight that wouldn't seem awkward or fidgety. She settled for moving her hands out of her lap and letting them land on the couch.
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He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. So still. Prim even. Was she really that enthralled with what was on the TV? He'd been looking toward it, sure, but he had been unable to focus on anything other than the girl sitting next to him. Her eyes seemed to be analyzing every pixel, memorizing each scene. Perhaps he was the only one in the room whose mind was so distracted. He did not want to be watching TV. Not with her body so close to his. But if she was enjoying it, he could restrain himself for a bit longer.
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What was she watching? A documentary on President Lincoln perhaps? The re-enactor looked like Lincoln at least. It could've been the history of the tugboat for all she knew. Her eyes, trained on the screen, were actually looking past - through - it. She was fighting the ever-growing urge to turn and focus all of her energy on analyzing him. But that might be a little too much. Her back was really starting to ache. She let out a small sigh just as fake-Abe was shot.
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She repositioned her legs so that they were no longer under her. He didn't dare turn his head all the way toward her, but he ventured a quick glance. Her hair was down, draped over her shoulder now. As he thought about brushing it back, he felt his hand drift a couple of inches along the couch toward her. He stopped it, but let it remain where it was.
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The President was dead. Everyone appeared to be mourning. She couldn't care less about what the narrator was saying. She wanted to spin around, push that boy's hair out of his eyes, and finally, finally, taste his lips. Breathe him in. To feel his hands on her. That wasn't her though. She didn't accost. She was far too awkward. Far too afraid of rejection. But someone had to do something. The tension - anticipation - was killing her.
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For all of the watching out of the corner of his eye, he didn't see it coming. Her skin touched his, their fingers interlocking. It felt...perfect. Completely unexpected. He could tell she was looking at him then. He turned his head.
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There were the eyes she had longed to stare into. Looking right back at her. So full of life. They took her breath away momentarily, their stare so intense. She half-whispered.
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"Hi."
He just barely heard her.
"Hi," he replied. He rotated himself so that he was was facing her completely, keeping his eyes locked on hers. His other hand moved up to her cheek, pulling her face toward his own.
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That was all it took. Her single impulsive action, and the show they had both pretended to care about was completely forgotten.
2:48am 3.11.10
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