Alison was only his younger by two years, born in the year 1967 versus his 1965. Their gap was minor, but it was the difference of that which made the difference between them.
Quiet moments were far and few between, and the fleeting instance they came to be were cherished. He juggled jobs. Inconsistent and hardly legitimate they served a simple purpose: to fill the gaps of which their father failed to mend, a man who treated his employment as if it were optional which often led to basic needs or base bills being left unpaid in favor of the purchase of alcohol and amusements for immature friends. He started at fifteen, after the death of his mother. She went painlessly; for that he was grateful. He would picked up the slack without complaint, if only to keep his sister from having to do the same—focusing on her studies were his priority for her, even if his own suffered due to it. Shady deals and simple tasks were the general means of income; something which paid more than a few pounds was an uncommon gem, and treasured for its value when presented. He prided himself on his support, meager as it was. And, once in a blue moon, a rare opportunity presented itself when he found himself with spare tender he’d no use for, and was reluctant to place in the house’s leaking pool of earnings.
It was those untapped finances which he used to treat his younger sister. He could not offer much, but what he could was meticulously planned. Little escaped his attention. He noticed if she stared at clothing in a store’s window for a little too long, or if her eyes lingered on some other material item even while she attempted to divert attention elsewhere. He saw her glancing at movie posters with a wistful expression on her face, or when she stood and stared at an advertisement for an event longer than someone who was uninterested would. He carefully divided funds, rationed them out for what called for them and hoarded the rest for unselfish purposes (for the most part, as even he had things he wanted to buy but couldn’t).
Standing on a pier’s edge, he glanced at her with the ghost of a grin on his face, his hands shoved into his pockets as he stood languidly beside her. They were at some event he hardly cared for. It was a water show, he thinks. He’d barely been paying attention to the events around them; the extent of his concentration was directed almost entirely onto her, and all the details she displayed. The expressions she produced, the movements and fidgets of her limbs, the comments she made. Occasionally he responded but largely he preferred to keep his silence. It was a Saturday, and they had the afternoon to themselves, and although his enthusiasm lay far from water craft and the various stunts they could perform, hers, for whatever reason, apparently did (and that was enough to keep him wholly satisfied with the way their hours were spent). It was the smile which morphed her countenance into an unrestrained display of exuberance which caused his own heart to swell with contented bliss, and he could barely contain a short burst of a laugh with every chattering observation she made.
She was fifteen and he was seventeen, but it felt as if they were both still small children. Outings were scarce, but each he could afford were presented to her without hesitation. It was their unspoken system, and he’d every intention to continue to uphold that come hell or high water.
