The summer night had started off the same as all the other evenings spent with Noah. I had memorized the path to his house, my feet walking the familiar dirt road. My hands shook as I approached the front door; the trembling caused more from excitement then from being nervous. I made a steady knock on the wood, my knuckles white from the tight fist I’d made in an attempt to control my hand. He stood there, his figure outlined by the moon light. Each strand of his blonde hair was ruffled as he ran his hand throughout it, his eyes staring at me in the dark. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, my lips turning from coral to rose. Soon his mouth was against mine, my back against the side of the house, his hand supporting my chin. They were hands that worked for a living, worn with calluses and crusted with dirt that would never come off no matter how hard you scrubbed at them with soap and warm water. His heavy breathing filled my eardrums, the rush of blood flushing my face, my heart pounding against his chest. Pulling back, he peered down at me, our anxious bodies trembling from each other’s touch; the silence of night time calming the rush and spirit of young love.