’What’s ya name’, she called out over her shoulder as she rode off, throwing it out to the wind only half caring if he answered, and even less if she heard. But that wasn’t the point. The thing was she’d said it, and there it hung, her words, forming shapes, telling stories and building possibilities that bounced off the summer heated cement of the skate park where he’d been watching her.
He didn’t call back, didn’t bother. Instead, as if watching himself, he let the words go, clear in the direct afternoon sun now bouncing hot off his eager brown face. ’I’m Tom’, he said, and releasing his name it sailed out over the fluff of his young blonde moustache, skimming low across tree tops and up into the blue where it hitched on a gust and was hurled even further, as if the end were fiction, as if destiny purposfully carried his name alone.
She slid to a stop. There was blood where she’d skated too fast and misjudged the turn, where her knee’s skin had opened, which she had hardly noticed till now. That was when she’d seen him, all legs, hair and eyes. She savoured that moment and stretched it out like she did when in the zone, when feet, board and air were a symphony of wild slow motion brumbies in stampeding unison.
But she noticed now something falling toward her, and catching it she looked, intently, as if looking were underrated and the pace of the world was finally revealed as a lie. Then, laying it out on the board’s surface and after a long moment, she carefully slid it under the lip of her pocket, committing it to her safety, and to the mystery and seduction of destiny.