The boy always dreamed, but thats about it. Like most young, eager boys, he traveled to the big city, New York City, to become the author he was never meant to be.

While strolling down the street some three months later, he noticed an old friend, a ravaged looking black haired boy from his old Midwest town. The two were never really close, actually, the boy hated the other, but not for any personal injury, just general personality. The author is a kind, soft spoken blonde haired boy who looks for the good in everyone. The other boy, hardened by abuse and molestation, voices retched thoughts and disgusting possibilities, blaming the world for all the misgivings which fell so unfortunately upon him. The author doesn't understand the boys inner torture, and thus concludes the boy is wicked, evil, gruesome, and ignorant.

But that is not so.

During this walk, the author spies the curious joy just across the street. Though he recognizes the face, he wishes not to intervene. He no longer hates the boy, but finds no reason to like him. So the author follows the boy, interest overturning fear.

As the boy walks, a stature of confidence and agitation, an old woman follows. The author, at first, concludes the two are of no relation, and thus thinks no further of the old woman. But what the author doesn't know is the dark, treacherous past the boy and the old woman have encountered, paths intertwining with maleficent maladaptation, entrapped by the fabric of destiny.

The author grows tired after sometime, or rather, weary, and so prepares his journey home, when he hears a faint call from the old lady.

The voice is withered, weak, defeated, and so the author cannot make out any one word. But the boy does, and, angered, infuriated really, the boy screeches sounds so hideous one would not be so cruel as to utter them again.

The author is astounded. Offended. Fascinated. Grasped by the interest of general courtesy, the author races towards the old woman, comforting her with kind words and soft compliments.

The old woman smiles, a glimpse of recognition in her dark black eyes, and turns a corner to a set of town houses, though rather cheap looking for such a nice city.

The old woman, touched by such generosity, invites the author inside, pushing through a large two story home, a staircase welcoming their entrance on the left, a dirtied carpet disguising the true guilt of its inhabitants, old, filthy furniture lounging haphazardly across a large living room with a small tv, a kitchen all but ignored in its uselessness.

The author pauses, flabbergasted by the sight. No, not the torn leather chair nor the semen covered sofa nor the dirt infused carpet nor the leaning tower of broken dishes. No, it is none of these things which force an aghast stance of astonishment. It is what he sees through a glass sliding door which so astounds him.

Juxtaposing the filthy quarters, the glass is clean, shined, polished, as if by purpose. But even this is not what fascinates the boy. It is what lays beyond the glass which so astounds.

Floating in the gentle summer breeze, yards of delicate green grass frolic across a wide, open expanse. Grabbing far beyond the city limits to a place he once knew, once loathed, once feared. A place which agonized his thoughts and tortured his beliefs. But this was not a look of fear nor sadness nor contempt, but astonishment.

Before the boy is a bright, vivid scene of memory superimposed by the fragile, ancient woman standing tiredly near the door, staring at the boy with senile amusement.

"How...I mean...where...why...I mean..." The boy stutters.

"They never do expect it." The old lady laughs with a husky grin.

"They?"

"Ya know, people like yourself. People who never lived in the city. People who grew up in small towns and big suburbs."

"How did you know..."

"Oh, you don't fool me. With your Midwestern accent and your kind, generous way of speaking. No one from the city ever acts like that. No, your far too kind for them."

The boy wants to say more, but can't seem to find the words. The vast, perhaps half acre expanse behind him is not large, but fascinating none the less. The boy never thought he'd see such a place like this ever again. Didn't really want to, actually. But when he did, he was happier than an evergreen on Christmas Eve.

"You can stay if you'd like."

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh, don't pretend like you weren't thinking about it. We have tons of Midwest folk who stay around here. It's in their blood. They have to."

"Well I don't want to...I mean...I already have a place...and..."

"We'll take good care of that." The old woman assures with a sly smile. "You don't worry one bit."

"Can I....I mean...can we..."

"Go ahead!" The woman insists, pushing the polished glass with reluctant enthusiasm, "Its not just here to look at."

The boy leaps out the portal of disgust, a euphoric smile engulfing thin red lips, ivory skin glowing dark in the afternoon sun with the pleasure of peace, happiness, and content. The boy didn't know it, but this is what he really wanted. Though he always complained and bragged to his friends how he'd one day live in a great big city, it really wasn't all that true. He'd always loved fresh cut lawns and old wooden play houses and pruned roses and screaming children. He didn't know it. But he did want it. And when he saw the supple green grass, he knew he had to stay.

Over the next few weeks, he met the many residents of the old home. All young, energetic, good-looking, kind-hearted adults with inescapable Midwestern accents and loving smiles. There seemed to be a good mix of boys and girls, though there were certainly more girls than boys, and they all seemed to mingle in and out of love, affairs, and that kind of stuff.

Who you owned this week was always different than the next. And that's what it was, ownership, that is. The boys didn't own the girls nor did the girls own the boys, but they always owned each other. An affair with a girl meant an agreed contract between the two. They were yours now, if only for a moment. And though the boy flirted and slept with and kissed many of the girls, there was only one he really wanted.

But it was not a want that drew him to the girl, but a need. Something he had to have. He couldn't not have. An inescapable desire which plagued him like some retched disease. He couldn't explain this feeling, and, similarly, neither could the girl. So they became good friends, best friends, but never once violated each other. Not even in dreams did they touch each other. Nothing more than a friendly hug or a kind handshake. Never anything more.

The boy, though he had slept with and kissed and flirted with many girls since his escape from small town nowhere, for the first time, felt a strong sense of guilt. For the first time in a long time, he thought about his girl back home, in small town Indiana, who he promised to marry and love and cherish. Forever, or so he said.

It's not like he hated her, quite the contrary. He loved being with her, kissing her, making love to her, talking to her, playing with her, loving her. But he wasn't in love with her. He certainly thought he was. Yes, the whole world seemed to think such things. But this feeling, the way he felt for this girl, this new girl, was different.

Something intoxicating, debilitating, mesmerizing. But it wasn't lust. No, it certainly wasn't that. He didn't want sex, at least, not in the way he did with other girls. He didn't want to throw her on the bed and make ravage love to her body. No, nothing like that.

But, nonetheless, he couldn't stop looking at her, thinking about her, talking about her. Never to her, of course. No, not even the kindest Midwestern was that up front. No, us suburbians are kind, friendly, talkative, but never blunt. Beating around the bush is at blunt as it gets, and you never actually acknowledge the bush.

This was perhaps the biggest hinderance to them both, for the girl felt no differently towards the boy. She cried when he was gone, fought bitterly when he was there, teased with insufferable maleficence, and gossiped with a filthy conscience whenever he turned away. She couldn't let anyone know how she really felt. Especially him.

So she bombarded him with injudicious malice, hate, and fury. She bit at his words and snapped at the very thought of him. If she couldn't love him, she had to hate him. It was the only way not to think of him. But even in this hate there was a forlorn anticipation, a longing, an aching need.

The boy was confused by this malice, and took it, perhaps as she planned, as true, spiteful hate. So he avoided the girl, as she avoided him, and they cried. Both of them. The girl in front of many friends, the boy never in the comfort of another. He could never let people know how he truly felt. No, not really. The boys were good people and kind and honest and all that, but they wouldn't understand. The girls, likewise, would laugh him to bits. They'd think him weak, ignorant, stupid. They'd tell him to go home, love his true love, and never comeback. No, he couldn't have that. He couldn't leave her. Even if that meant never seeing her.

The more he avoided her, the more she avoided him. The trite sense of loathing distaste grew with each and every day, and she hated him all the more for avoiding her. Sure, she avoided him, but that was different. She did it out of love, desire, sorrow. Why he did it, she didn't know. But she could only assume it was purposeful malice. So they avoided each other all the more.

This avoidance of avoidance soon lead to sudden outbursts of tears, audible even from the farthest room some hundred yards and twenty walls away. To the girls, it was just some boy. She never said what boy, but just a boy. The girls pretended to understand, they too had cried over their fair share of boys, but never like this. No, none of them have ever felt like she feels. None of them have ever been bound by the torturous chains of love.

The boy could hear these whales, recognized the whimpers, and was many times sent to tears himself. He knew the sound the way flowers know rain, ever recognizing in a harsh sense of truth. He wanted to go to her, comfort her, love her, but he knew he couldn't. The whales weren't for him, the whimpers certainly not his to soothe. No, they were for some other boy. A better boy, a nicer boy, a stronger boy. Someone she could love. Someone she did.

He knew he could never love her, because she could never love him. He accepted this, but nonetheless was saddened by its truth. Each day he would wait for her to leave, the bustling of friends drowning out the distinct laughter of her angel voice. Even in this boisterous confusion he could recognize her sweet, simple laugh. He always did. He'd wait till the front door closed, another five minutes, and then leave.

But after awhile, the laughter grew fainter, and hers was never there. At first, he concluded he must of misheard. But after many days, he assumed the only thing a boy really can. She left. The home, the city, the state, he didn't know. He just knew she was gone.

The girl did in fact leave. But not the town nor the city nor even the house. No, she left the parties and fun and laughter and chaos and waitressing and income. She couldn't bear leaving the home, not without him. She couldn't bear another moment knowing that she'll never see his smile or hear his laugh or follow in those long, heavy footsteps. She couldn't bear even the thought of leaving his whimpers, which she alone could now hear after everyone else had escaped to minimum wage jobs and bars and strip clubs.

She didn't know who he cried about, but knew the tears weren't hers to blame. This only made her sadder, and trapped her in that small, one bed bedroom. Most the girls had to share, but after long spouts of bawling and whaling and whimpering, they gave in. No one could live with her.

The boy also lived alone, though for a slightly different reason. He had insisted not to take the end bedroom, knowing it was the finest of all the bedrooms, but the old woman insisted. Said it was always meant to be his, or something like that.

He didn't understand this, but after much bargaining, gave in, defeated, to the old, withered woman, figuring she'd die soon enough.

She never did die though, at least, not as long as he could remember.

After two more years of pain and suffering, the boy left. He could no longer manage living without the girl. He didn't know where she was, where she would be, or what she would say, but he could hold back no longer. She had to know.

The girl, at first, did not notice his leave, for she barely left the crowded room. Though, after three months of collecting courage, she decided to tell the boy just how she really felt. She didn't care about courtesy or duty or womanliness. It was no time to beat around the bush. Bluntness was required, and she was finally ready.

She knocked on the door, pacing back and forth several minutes before, but no one answered. She smiled at the last few boys who were just leaving for the bar, and the old woman came crawling up the last set of stairs.

Though she said nothing, the girl understood.

The boy was gone.

That was that.