Strawberry something

He is leaning with his back against the twisted metal bars of the playground. Painted bright red and yellow, they are a mess of colour beneath his black jacket.

White fluff drifts past my face. It drifts everywhere like snow; and I thought winter was over. But here is the white fluffy stuff of summer. (band name?)

Naw. But I’ll tell it to Emily anyways because she’ll laugh.

I’m close enough I can meet his eyes now, not see the colour of them, but see their gleam. I’m supposed to see the colour of them today. Because Emily wants to know. She says that me not knowing is ridiculous, that if I’m in love I would know the colour of the person’s eyes.

But I’m not in love, I told her.

She only giggled and winked at me with one dazzling green eye, before going back to sipping at her strawberry milkshake with her strawberry-glossed lips, strawberry-blonde hair sticking to the perspiring glass. 

Strawberry something, that’s a band name.

But strawberry is her and not me. So where do I come in?


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