The Sunset

            Lydia and I sit with our backs to the wooden fence. It stretches tall above us, leaving us to wonder what sort of yard lies behind it. Green or dead? Flowers or bare? Empty or a family sitting quietly on their patio? Or maybe it’s only me who’s wondering.
            “My butt hurts from that bicycle seat.”
We had ridden our bikes just outside of our neighborhood to lean against this fence.
            “Lydia! There could be people just on the other side of the fence! Do you want them to hear you talking about your butt?”
            “Like I care.”
            “Fair enough,” I shrug and fix my eyes on the reason we came, the sunset.
In front of us, sits Duncan road, a field, Interstate 57, and the sunset. The view is unobstructed by houses or trees which is why we made the short trek over in the first place.
            Lydia glances at me and then back to the sky, “Is something supposed to be happening?”
            “It’s a sunset, Lydia.”
            “I know, but when will it get dark?”
            I snort, “I don’t know! Soon, but it’s not going to happen in five minutes.”
            “So we just have to sit here?”
            I roll my eyes at her, “Yes.”

            She settles back to watch the colors fade into each other. The silence doesn’t last long. I didn’t expect it to. Her speech gushes forth prompted by my mmmhhhmmmm’s and yeah’s and uh huh’s. She tells me about her first days of seventh grade and about the new kids and the old ones. She tells me about her classes and the stresses of her life. She tells me about her girlfriends and the boys she wishes could maybe be her boyfriends. And she tells me she’s a hoper.
            “A what?” I laugh. She had said it so seriously.
            “A hoper! Why is that funny?”
            I compose myself, “It’s not really; I just think the word is funny. Sounds like hopper. Like a frog or something.”
            She’s not amused, “Anyway, yeah. I’m a hoper. I just can’t help it. But I figured out that when I have daydreams, it makes me think of those people in the way I dream them. Like, if I daydream about a boy, I think he actually is that way when I see him.”
            “I know what you mean,” I say. The sky is burning a deep pink. “So that’s why I stopped daydreaming. Because when I daydreamed, the guys were always doing heroic things and adventurous things. But more than that, they liked me. Loved me. And you know, it never actually happened like that. So I forced myself to stop daydreaming because I didn’t want to keep being disappointed.”
            The corners of her mouth pull downwards, thinking about what I said, “Yeah, but I can’t just stop. That’s not who I am. I’m a hoper. Daydreaming is one of the beautiful parts of life. One of the best parts.”
            I look over at her twelve-year-old self. I begin to contradict her, but she keeps going.
            “Sure people let you down. Take so and so. He turned out to be a jerk. So poof him!”
            She has me laughing again, “Poof him? Poof? Where did you get that one? I should start using it.”
            “I just made it up. But yeah, so he turned out to be a real jerk, but I’m not going to stop hoping.”
            “Yeah, but Lydia, don’t you think actions are better than just daydreaming? How can daydreaming be one of the best parts in life if it’s not even doing anything?”
            “I’m twelve! What do you expect me to do?”

            I sat quietly. The sky was getting darker. The cars driving by had their headlights on. What did I expect her to do? As a twelve year old, what should her outlet for passion be other than daydreaming? As a twenty-one year old, what should mine? Surely by now, mine should be something other than daydreaming?

            “Leah?”
            “Hmm?”
            “You’re a really good listener.”
             I look over at her.
            “Honestly, you are one of the most important people in my life.”
            I squirm uncomfortably. “Oh stop. You’re going to make me cry.”
            And as she puts her head on my shoulder, the tears do blur my last look at the sunset. Maybe my outlet for passion doesn’t need to be any grander than this.
            I sniff, “I love you, Lydia.”
            “I love you too,” and she puts her hand in mine.