Letter 412: In a Heartbeat
Every Saturday evening, she jogs her way to the oval and sits on a bench beneath the old pine tree. Of the 20-odd wooden benches that frame the oval, she likes this bench in particular. Its location under the colossal pine allows her lanky torso to be strategically covered in the shadows, and affords her the freedom to stelthily observe the local boys indulging in their evening pursuit of tackling an olive-shaped ball on the playing field.
Although she has never understood the nation's favourite past time, she enjoys watching the thrill of the chase. The sustained running punctuated by roars of victory is enough to turn the corners of her mouth upwards. She smiles from the reverberation of the enthralling vibes that are generated from the heart of the oval time and again, like those from the epicenter of a quake-- except these are good vibrations, spurred by the victorious response evoked on the playing field.
She usually sits and watches the game for a good 15 minutes, occasionally taking a swig from her water bottle that she carries during her evening jogs. The boys don't know that they have a silent spectator in the shadows. They have their dads and coaches to cheer them on in the open. Ah, such warm, young blood on the fields. Golden hair and tanned athletic lads with big blue eyes and lopsided smiles that would surely score them endless amount of dates. But there is a particular boy that has caught her eye. He stands out from his mates because he has an unruly mop of chestnut mane and a few freckles on his cheeks that still harbour some baby fat. He is slightly taller than his mates, though just as equally as muscular. She has been observing him for a few Saturdays now, and thought he was the best player on the field.
Today, as usual, she sits on her favourite bench, watching him from the shadows. He had almost scored another point if not for a slight misjudgement that had sent the ball flying towards her direction. Her heart lurches, unprepared for this moment. It's a decision between staying hidden and risk getting hit by a high-velocity footy ball, or emerging from the shadows and risk exposing herself. She decides to avoid any incidental sporting injury, so reluctantly she jumps up from her bench and takes a few steps sidewards. Her eye candy is already making his way towards the spiraling ball; towards her.
"Sorry!" he grins, imposing his boyish charms upon her as he bends over and scoops up the ball that had landed a few feet from her.
"S'ok mate!" She returns the smile. Taken by surprise, she had to keep reminding herself that he was probably no more than 16.
Although she has never understood the nation's favourite past time, she enjoys watching the thrill of the chase. The sustained running punctuated by roars of victory is enough to turn the corners of her mouth upwards. She smiles from the reverberation of the enthralling vibes that are generated from the heart of the oval time and again, like those from the epicenter of a quake-- except these are good vibrations, spurred by the victorious response evoked on the playing field.
She usually sits and watches the game for a good 15 minutes, occasionally taking a swig from her water bottle that she carries during her evening jogs. The boys don't know that they have a silent spectator in the shadows. They have their dads and coaches to cheer them on in the open. Ah, such warm, young blood on the fields. Golden hair and tanned athletic lads with big blue eyes and lopsided smiles that would surely score them endless amount of dates. But there is a particular boy that has caught her eye. He stands out from his mates because he has an unruly mop of chestnut mane and a few freckles on his cheeks that still harbour some baby fat. He is slightly taller than his mates, though just as equally as muscular. She has been observing him for a few Saturdays now, and thought he was the best player on the field.
Today, as usual, she sits on her favourite bench, watching him from the shadows. He had almost scored another point if not for a slight misjudgement that had sent the ball flying towards her direction. Her heart lurches, unprepared for this moment. It's a decision between staying hidden and risk getting hit by a high-velocity footy ball, or emerging from the shadows and risk exposing herself. She decides to avoid any incidental sporting injury, so reluctantly she jumps up from her bench and takes a few steps sidewards. Her eye candy is already making his way towards the spiraling ball; towards her.
"Sorry!" he grins, imposing his boyish charms upon her as he bends over and scoops up the ball that had landed a few feet from her.
"S'ok mate!" She returns the smile. Taken by surprise, she had to keep reminding herself that he was probably no more than 16.
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8 Durian(s) Thrown at Jun:
aiseh...16 yr old boy also interested???
joe: age no barrier mar *har har*
Well, maybe you'll be lucky and he'll turn out to be 18 instead.
hahahhaa whats this pedophilic tendency i see here?!!! :D notti notti! :P
Isn't 16 the age of consent in Europe? Maybe it's time for a move, Dr. Jun.... ;)
lyrical lemongrass: har har aren't u funny.
nickie: eh whr got pedophilic tendency i hate babies >.<
kenny: u sponsoring mah move mr mah? ;p
that episode of private practice with that clerk (or intern??) and meredith comes to mind. this is of course, more interesting cos the setting is more colourful. ;D
nic: eh? since when did meredith appear on private prac? u meant naomi?
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