The helicopters came flying down into the day claimed by Summer. Warm pavement welcomed the devices of flight to land freely on top of it. The trees, situated high above welcoming pavement, dropped leaves that fell in a fashion replicating the motion of helicopter blades. They made whirring sounds as they fell, crashing into the concrete ground, and grass-soft Earth.
Sitting on the patio, drinking lemonade, he was calm and, for the most part, content with his imperfect life. The tan on his arm was a measure of how lonely he felt. Of how long Summer had been, and of how much he was missing the schoolchildren who he taught at the school a city over from where he lived.
He missed their loudness and their curiosities.
He imagined a world where he was more than just a godfather; a world where he himself was a father, or a god. More creatively, more unbelievably, he imagined a world where he was still a child.
The helicopters, that he once watched amusingly in youth, were now samaras cluttering his patio. He would let them pile up. It made for a less lonely atmosphere, crowding up the patio space that friends should occupy.
The calm, content man always thought he could be a good father, if given the chance. It seemed unlikely that this chance would ever come, as the partners he chose were not the kind that could bear children. Add to this, the only man he had once been married to had left him divorced, and with too many patio chairs. The chairs sitting empty, adding to his feelings of loneliness. He silently offered the patio chairs up, as a place to sit for any pilots who had survived their descent.
Perhaps he should have listened to his father whilst he stood in his teenage bedroom, and the living room, and the kitchen, and everywhere else. He should have listened when he told him to settle down with a partner of the women variety, and learn to like her company and her ability to make children. If he had listened then, he might not be alone now. He would be sitting here, drinking lemonade with a son or daughter, watching them amusingly watch falling leaves - or teaching them how to be amused. Whatever he had to say to his fictitious children, would be better than his own father lecturing him to be someone who he wasn’t.
The accumulation of sun kisses on his skin reminded him that he was not alone. The sun was in the sky forever, to love him forever. Her many kisses, and the landing of helicopters in his hair, suggested to him that the Summer was coming to its end. Fall would return soon to do its job, of paving the way for the winter, and telling children to return to school.
Leaving the sun in her cheating place, he picks up his lemonade to go back inside his silent house. He used to share this house with the love of his life, now he shares it with an orange cat who purrs softly and sleeps often. How shameful it was to inform his father of his divorce - from a man no less.
Being considerate of his own well being, he ventures back indoors to feed his hungry cat and to look at empty chairs, all the while careful not to let his quiet loneliness turn into a loud sadness. Careful further to not let his own hunger - hunger to be liked - turn to starvation, as his reality begged him to realize that he was not exceptionally likable, and that the sun kisses everyone.