We were walking down the street, you and I. It was getting cold, but that summer cold. The kind that makes you shiver and shimmy, kicking your toes against the still warm pavement in an attempt to leech out the last drops of sunshine. The sky was fuzzy dark, like a broken record, skitching but regular all across. The stars winked at us as if they were laughing out loud about our little jokes. My feet were bare, as always, and yours were covered in brand new sandals. They were nice sandals, though I didn't like them at the time. It's funny how things grow on us.
We talked about the picture show and the malts we'd drunk. Every once in a while I would skip out ahead of the pace we kept, but you'd grab my arm and hold me back. It sort of seemed like you didn't want to let me go too far, but you didn't want to hold me too close either. I sort of liked that, so I would skip out a little further every time, seeing how far I could before you'd give me up for gone. Once, I kicked my feet up and danced in front of you, whirling and laughing, telling you you could never catch me.
You grabbed my hand and pulled me close, not letting go this time. You told me you were proud to say you'd caught a falling star and that you were never letting me go.
