A toast.

To the last day of school.

To summer.

To endless nights and bright mornings.

To hot pool days and hotter lifeguards.

Any pairing that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Have AT thee, bitches.

It was slipping off of her shoulder.

It was slipping off, and he wanted nothing more than to take the cotton strap in his fingers and draw it back up to her delicate shoulder, where the sun was supposed to dance, where tickling kisses were supposed to cover the area.

But no, instead, he left it there.

He left it there, the flowering summer patterns twisting and knitting together with her hair, just as summery, just as eager to toss the school days behind it, weave with the summer breeze.

Live again.

Laugh again.

So how, he thought to himself, asked himself, was she able to look down to what he knew was four faces, two diamonds, and three confessing, spilling hearts, and not know? That her hair was tied with flowers, that her shoulder was being kissed by the sun?

Her concentration contained a deadly flaw. Brown eyes restrained autumn, liberated summer for the first time. He saw it. He knew it. So how, he thought to himself, asked himself, was she able to look at him, him who was all knowing, and not know? That he knew what was going through her mind in that very moment, that she couldn't hide it, not even with a shield of plastic and royalty?

She couldn't lie, she just couldn't.

It slipped off of her shoulder.

It slipped off, so how, he thought to himself, asked himself, was he going to be able to do this now? Knowing that her shoulder, delicate, fragile, beautiful, was going to be a distraction. Why would he ever tell her, "You're slipping" when he himself wanted to correct the mistake?

It was possibly possible to look so innocent, but be stained with a lie, with temptation. And to hide the queen behind the queen. Finally he was able to analyze his own confessing, spilling hearts, his own faces, his own diamonds and shovels and substitute weaponry. And see the sun on his hands.

He looked to her once more. Eager. Like summer. Tempting. Like her bare shoulder. And summer. He threw down his confession.

"Got any queens?"

"Go fish."

He tilted his head to the side, ducking away from the sun perched on her shoulder. He saw two queens, one tucked away in her hands, the other smiling, summer hair twisting into her strap of temptation.

"You're lying."

"Go. Fish."

And he did. He swam, he escaped, if only for a moment, in hopes of retrieving what he truly wanted.

"Fished my wish."

"That's impossible!"

And before the queen could stop herself, the words had already slipped out of her mouth. She had confessed, she had spilled, tarnished that atmosphere. She looked, with summer eyes, with a royal smile, to see the brilliant glimmer of a diamond between his fingers. Never to lie, never to alter the truth. But to call her out on her biggest pretend.

So she, in turn, surrendered. She showed him four faces, two diamonds, and three confessing, spilling hearts.

"You're a terrible liar."

"I know."

And suddenly, unexpectedly, it wasn't about the royalty, the smiles, the faces so monotone and lofty, but about how quickly their secrets were facedown, forgotten. She never won. Simply because she would lie and smile about it and expose her shoulder to the sun and lie some more... and they would end up this way. Monograms facing the summer, two thundering spirits easing towards each other.

The sun on both shoulders, both her flowery temptation and summery twisted around his finger in satisfaction. And she would taste how honest he was, and he would taste how offbeat she could be. He would always beat the summer sun to pressing kisses to her shoulder, delicate, frgaile, beautiful and every aspect of their situation.

Them, as a whole.

They could only be described as tempting as the shoulder that now glowed with his kiss to it. As innocent as the game they had played and had forgotten. As liberated as the season itself, carefree, humid, and welcoming. They could be described as in love.

They could only be described as summer.

I hate how cheesy the ending is.

But I love how the en-ti-yur thing was a metaphor. Dude, you figure it out, mad props.

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