Through Glass(3)

“Uh-huh, and I have the plague.” I smiled brightly and he rolled his eyes just as my mom’s voice sounded again; she was louder and decidedly angrier this time.

I sighed unattractively and swung my legs back onto my desk just as the sound of my mom’s footsteps sounded on the staircase. That was one big downfall of living in such an old house; not only was it small, but every noise echoed around the rooms like it was happening right next to you.

“I gotta go,” I sighed, sure my voice sounded much more dejected than I wanted it to. Cohen’s face went from smiling to pensive dejection so fast it made my heart clench.

“Dinner,” I provided as if that made it all better.

“Well, you better come right back. I have a job for you.” His bright smile shone from across the ten foot gap.

“A job?” I asked as I slid off the desk to face him.

My mom yelled again, her voice loud at the top of the stairs. I wanted to turn toward her—to be the obedient child I always was—but I couldn’t make myself move. Not yet.

“Yeah, so don’t be too long. My slave laborers normally don’t get dinner breaks.” He smiled again as my jaw dropped, the odd, spluttering sounds coming from my mouth again.

“Slave laborer!” I tried to regain control, but nothing seemed to be cooperating and my fire-hot temper bubbled uncomfortably.

“Smile, firecracker,” he said, his smile leaving me sputtering as he waved to my mom, who I was sure was right behind me. Then, he left his room.

How did he always get under my skin? And for the stupidest things, too. Ugh.





The job that Cohen had planned for me happened to be just sitting in my windowsill and talking to him while he painted, no slave labor involved. Besides, it’s not like I really minded doing it.

I loved watching him while he worked.

I loved watching how his hands moved, how his finger curled. He was so gentle when he painted. Seeing him like this, it was who he really was; not the loud obnoxious boy that had run for class president and streaked at a football game. Just Cohen. As much as he liked to poke fun and joke. This was Cohen; gentle and kind and creative. Everything about him was incredibly soft as he focused, his fingers floating through the air with the smudges of charcoal on his fingertips.

No matter how hard he tried, he could never get the dark marks off. I had even helped him on several occasions, the abrasive soap drying out my skin. The charcoal smudges stayed stained into his fingers, my skin peeling until Cohen had brought me some heavy paraffin lotion. He had rubbed it into my fingers for hours while we watched Pride and Prejudice; dutifully sitting next to me for all of it, only leaving when he tried to hide his tears. It didn’t work, though, I could still see the redness in his dark eyes when he came back. Seeing him like that had sent my heart pulsing at the heavy compassion and love for him that had found its way into the deep pit of my heart.

I would always remember that night—that uncontrollable emotion that had taken a hold of me then—when I watched him work. I could still see the same passion in his eyes as I had during that movie, just like now. I watched the dark smears on his fingers, the smudge of green on his forehead that only made him look darker, dangerous… more desirable.

I pushed the thought away for the hundredth time, trying to focus on something other than the way merely talking to him made my heart beat in a comfortable way; it was as though everything in the world would always be perfect as long as Cohen was there. Like the way his smile supercharged that feeling.

Even though he had been gone for almost a full year, nothing had changed between us. Crush and all, everything was the same, and I was already afraid to lose that. We talked while he sketched; as we had done through most of middle and high school. It was tradition and as normal as breathing.

I balled up another piece of paper from my notebook and hocked it at him over the gap. The paper swirled through the breeze, spinning until it zoomed right between the canvas and his nose.

He froze mid-stroke and slowly turned to scowl at me, his eyes narrowing playfully. I was torn between laughter and guilt; so instead, I settled for sitting still while I let the blush seep onto my cheeks.

“If you keep doing that, Lex, I am going to give you a crooked nose,” he said through his smirk, his smile only growing before he turned back to the canvas.

My joy faded as his words sunk in. My nerves began jittering through me as I clung to the windowsill I was sitting on.

“What?” I asked, my alarm peaking as my voice reached an octave I was sure wasn’t present a moment before. “You aren’t really drawing me, are you?”

Cohen didn’t even look at me. He smiled and my stomach fell fifteen feet onto the lilac bush somewhere below. He couldn’t be drawing me. He couldn’t. I wanted to be flattered or excited, yet the emotions wouldn’t come. I had seen the type of talent Cohen had and I wasn’t really that type of material. That simple thought brought me right back down to earth. Obviously he wasn’t drawing me, he was merely a lying jerk.

I scowled at him a little harder than was necessary, but it didn’t matter, he wasn’t even looking at me anyway.

“No, you aren’t,” I said, thoroughly aware that I sounded a little too “third grade”. Cohen only smiled more.

“Yes, I am, firecracker, see.” He waved a paint brush with bright red paint on it through the air for me to see. “Firecracker red.”