The Book of Elijah Knight  

Wild Horses  

Fifteen years old. Late August. The end of high school’s first summer.  

The evening sun prepares to scurry away beneath the darkling clouds. In the distance, thunder rings through the sky, it tiptoes in succession, like fingers dancing across a piano.

Mostly parents and a handful of friends – early arrivals – clamour between two of the four metal stands which are six rows high. It is thirty minutes before the soccer game begins. Spread on the lowest bench lays an array of toys which the toddler ignores, instead choosing to climb the metal structure. Her mother, arms outstretched, stands poised.

The light poles stretch tall like gilded minarets, its top glows from the golden, swarming aphids.

The air is hot. It almost pops to your breath. I’m already sweating. I sit in the grass and stretch. I press my cleats together and pull in. My knees flap out like wings. The grass' tips tickle my hamstring.

The coach smirks and shakes his head as a handful of players escape behind the bench to the thickets of the bushes and trees to pee.

Warming up, the sound of the balls kicked back and forth hangs over the green field. The balls thump, and bound against the ground.

My teammates are scattered around our half of the field in small groups. Amongst teammates, the chatter begins as the balls are passed back in forth. Soon they pass crisply and sternly as the coach approaches. Some players are keeping up the ball. The ball taps their leather shoes, springing away and then back towards their feet, as if it were attached to an unseen elastic. Tap. Tap. Tap. They watch the ball bound rhythmically. They are hypnotized. They are in another place.

Long arcing crosses soar from one side line to the other. The ball’s black and white pentagons and hexagons blur in the sky like an image in a kaleidoscope.

A group of girls from high school are watching. I steal looks during warm-up, casually glancing at her. She falls laughing into her friend’s lap, she gets up coughing and laughing, trying to suppress her laughter. She replaces it with a single smile towards the field. Reluctantly, I drag myself away from her field of vision, and join the rest of the team for warm-ups.

During the game, I unconsciously favour the play near the stands. I am lucky if my searching eyes are left undetected. She follows me as I pick up the ball to throw it back into play. Although it is unknown what she is looking at, I hope.

After the game, she is standing with her friends, there are four of them. Two are two years older than her.

Muddy and wet, I walk with my head down and look up briefly. I smile gently.

I walk home.

The black collars on my red jersey are hardened from the mixture of rain and mud.

I shower with my clothes on. I seem to wash away the outer shell of clay that covers my true self. I watch a single streak of light brown run along the ivory tub to the silver ring, and course down the drain. I kick some water against the tub wall to rinse off some stray mud. Blood trickles down my leg from my thigh.

I climb into bed. The breeze stirs the curtain. The storm clouds are gone. There is only the moon.

The song Wild horses plays on the clock radio.

My muscles slow from Evening’s exertion.

I watch the ceiling fan revolve. The moonlight marks the edges of the blades, making the fan appear as a bicycle wheel, its spokes gleaming.

I can see her smile. It tiptoes along my spine in succession.

And the breeze ushers in the sole thought of the entire night - first love.

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