Nikolas

"I'm Nikolas," the boy in the blue suit said as they started along the well-worn path of bended, sun-bleached beach grass that led to my house.  The sun had mostly disappeared below the horizon, leaving only a few tendrils of hazy, velvet plum light.  Fireflies peppered the air around them, and in the distance crickets were playing their songs.

"What's your name?"

"Doe.  Well, Isidora." 

Keep listening.  Focus on his voice.

"Nice to meet you, Doe.  Now, honestly, was it my performance that had you fleeing the boardwalk?"

"Performance?" I asked, swatting a gnat away from her face.  All the itchiest of insects lived near the beach.

Nikolas gestured down to his suit, his guitar.  "Blues Bandstand, right between the chili-dog vendor and the fortune telling booth."

I squinted at him in the sparse strips of light permeating from behind the trees.  I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed him.

Keep walking.  Keep talking.  You're fine.

"Really?  I wish I'd heard it.  Blues… who do you play?  B.B. King? Muddy Waters? Howlin' Wolf?"

Nikolas cocked up an eyebrow, pleased.  "Well yeah.  Yeah all of them.  But my grand finale is always Etta James."

I felt bolder with each step, closer and closer to the safety of my home.

"Oh she's just beautiful.  She makes my heart feel full.  I know that sounds weird.  I tried to explain it to… a friend… a while ago.  He didn't understand."

"No I know exactly what you mean.  It's something you can only understand once you feel it yourself.  I think it's something only a true artist can feel."

A true artist.  My mind flashed back to  sitting on the beach with Renzo, reading him a Bukowski poem.  I always kept books in her purse, just in case.  I remembered the way he'd looked at me as I'd finished reading. 

"Is this what you do all day?  Search for obscure bits of poetry?  It's hardly productive, Doe.  You should be planning for college, for a life.  Not trying to be some tortured artist."

"Is that what you do?  To make a living?  Play songs?" I asked Nikolas as we arrived at the gravel mouth of my driveway.

"To make a living?" He rubbed his hand over his face, further ruffling the front tufts of his hair.  "Maybe.  One day.  Right now I just do it because I love it, and I think it's amazing to contribute my own version of what I love back into the world."

Something stirred inside of me as Nikolas walked me up the steps to my front door, like a flutter up my spine.  It startled me, and when my voice came out it was louder than I expected.

"I write.  Poetry mostly.  I've never really shown anyone… It's not good enough to make any money from or anything."

Nikolas smiled, and in the porch light I could finally see his face clearly- the perfect cupids bow of his lips, the slight curl of his hair, his dark, strong eyebrows.

"Well listen to you.  Making money, making a living.  Here's the most important question, in my humble opinion: does it make you happy?"

"It makes me feel better than happy.  It makes me feel free."

"There we go.  I'm sure you write beautifully.  I'd love to read your work sometime!"  He was backtracking down the porch now, still looking up at me.  "I'll see you around!"

I could've sworn I felt a warm flush on my cheeks, but I knew that was impossible.  I hadn't felt the hot pulse of blood for some time now.  Still, I wasn't quite as cold that night.  I even slept with the window open, enjoying the coils of balmy air on my face.