Eternity of a Heartbeat

It was exactly 9:00 PM when they stepped into uncharted territory.
Oh, to be sure, others had been there, and they both knew it; but it
was the same kind of thrill as when a parent watches a child take his
first steps- obviously other people could walk and could even do long
division, but that flutter and satisfaction is present and burning
strong nevertheless.
This wasn't a connection they would have made; metaphors were as far
from their minds as shish kebabs and vitamin supplements.
Everyone knew there was something there- the way she, largely
unsuccessfully, would visibly fight the urge to keep him at arm's
length at all times. The way his eyes would flicker to scan the room
when she was near, unconvincingly attempting to focus on conversation.
The times when they were together, just standing there talking, and
she'd brush his hair out of his eye and he'd shrug her away,
laughing.
She was sixteen years old and in high school. Romantic, she was full of
doubts and hopes, all swirling, tossing, contradicting. He was
thirteen, more confident but tenderly attentive to every subconscious
change in her.
They were never alone, and despite that, or maybe thanks to that, it
was easy; never having occasion for more than a moment by themselves,
both became overtly comfortable together in the presence of
others.
The change that would come would be a small one. Tiny, but would make a
world of difference. They had talked, laughed, never flirted, something
which she came to appreciate and he was never aware of. One of them
would have to step forward and for the first time, silently express
what the other wanted.
It was she who did it, and it was simple. "We have five minutes". She
didn't say it as though she were in a hurry; the time they had was
nothing and it was everything. She counted each passing moment by the
rise of his chest, the light in his eye. He knew that from then, what
time they'd find together would be treasured by both. They would piece
each memory they had of the other and hold it.
They were close and they were comfortable. She, suddenly afraid to look
into those eyes, felt his arm tighten around her shoulders. He wouldn't
rush, didn't want to, wouldn't think it, but she soon looked up, and
their lips found each other and after an eternity of a heartbeat they
parted.
His face was a mirror of calm, a careful, knowing look in which she
tried to take comfort. Her senses were abandoning her and coming into
sharper focus all at once, her mind racing and contentedly empty. She
walked him to the elevator. Their goodbye was sweet, then he stepped
out, turned around and she was gone.
They each accepted the uncertainty that followed with a collected
understanding. It had been good- it might, probably would, still be.
She was older, and dreamy and passionate; he was patient, and strong
and confident. They'd be again and they wouldn't; neither knew, both
hoped and feared, and waited.