Jasper and I took a walk in the dry and crunchy fields. My toes were bare and crisp cold, a cold I wouldn't even feel unless I touched my feet. Each step was sharp and prickly in that field. I came to the conclusion that if I ran, it wouldn't hurt so much. Jasper didn't need to run, or walk, he could float, and I was jealous. Jasper made me nervous. The time we stood up from a long sit of talking, a talk where I often felt embarrassed, I ran right into him. My jaw hit his shoulder and I felt my lips soak through his shirt. I laughed, pretended I didn't notice, but it has bothered me since. But now, I was running and Jasper was floating. I came to realize that he wasn't really floating; he was just a smooth runner. I smiled at him, and he laughed. Then he snorted. He coughed a second later, hoping I would hear the cough instead. I heard it, and he knew I did. Then I fell to the ground, so did he, and lying there motionless, we both hoped and prayed that the moment would pass. It passed, but we both remembered. He let out a sigh, and I only blinked, as we stared up through the branches of the bare tree. The moon set a glow on our faces, so we made time pass on the dry, crunchy brown grass. And we still remembered.
2001