The Dust of Everyday Life
Spring.
The leaves were green and blooming, and so was she. The roses were on her cheeks and the sun left paint on her skin.
Her clothing resembled an aura, a facade she was trying to act out. The dark jeans with the small, finger-sized hole on the knee were traded in for colorful, draping skirts that made her look beautiful, yes, but out of place. She moved with a false strength, an independence that often betrayed her.
And when I would try to catch her eye, she would be too busy being the sunshine.
I would see her walking to her next class, headphones in, holding the day together. I thought about calling out her name, but she wouldn't hear me over the acoustic guitars. And why would she hear me anyway? We were on different wavelengths, a small pathetic purple wave calling out to a red wave, a wave that was stronger, brighter, more readily seen.
She had her admirers, but they all left her. I would see her talking to tall boys in black jackets, sometimes in flannel. They would seem to get along, and they would seem to make her smile. But by the end of the preliminary period, they decided to refund her for an easier catch, a girl less worthy of the chase. An expensive product traded in for the cheaper one. Life has an all-too-lenient return policy.
Basking in the sunshine, I would watch her tremble sometimes. She would close her eyes, as if remembering, and then she would look scared, as if everything was about to fall apart. She was sitting there, holding together loose threads that only she could see and only she could hold. No one else would help her, and she didn't ask them to.
The opportunity came, though, and I talked to her. Her name was the most beautiful sound anyone could ever emit. I would tell you, but you wouldn't understand; you wouldn't get it. To you it would just be another name, but to me, her name was the title of an extraordinary novel, the best part of the most beautiful song.
She was easy to talk to, and I found myself loving the way she teased me, loving the way she said my name. She would sit next to me and I would stop her from studying; she was very stressed. I don't think she actually wanted to study, though. She seemed to readily give up her review books and stride over to where I was photographing the shadows made on the face of one of the twins. She would say, "This is a good angle."
It made me feel like I had just painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
But we didn't have much time left. She was one year younger than me, and I was going to college in a few months. I was going to study writing.
"Biochemistry," she said, when I asked her what she wanted to study when she got into college.
She had one more year to go, however, and I couldn't wait for her. I would if I could. I would sit inside her bookbag and listen in on her classes. I would hear the intelligent things she would say, and watch her take copious notes about material that I could never comprehend.
I envied every male in her grade, every person who had the luxury of having classes with her. I envied her family, for seeing her every day. Her friends, for talking to her effortlessly. Her enemies, for having a stronger bond with her than I did, even if it was negative.
Her clothing resembled an aura, a facade she was trying to act out. The dark jeans with the small, finger-sized hole on the knee were traded in for colorful, draping skirts that made her look beautiful, yes, but out of place. She moved with a false strength, an independence that often betrayed her.
And when I would try to catch her eye, she would be too busy being the sunshine.
I would see her walking to her next class, headphones in, holding the day together. I thought about calling out her name, but she wouldn't hear me over the acoustic guitars. And why would she hear me anyway? We were on different wavelengths, a small pathetic purple wave calling out to a red wave, a wave that was stronger, brighter, more readily seen.
She had her admirers, but they all left her. I would see her talking to tall boys in black jackets, sometimes in flannel. They would seem to get along, and they would seem to make her smile. But by the end of the preliminary period, they decided to refund her for an easier catch, a girl less worthy of the chase. An expensive product traded in for the cheaper one. Life has an all-too-lenient return policy.
Basking in the sunshine, I would watch her tremble sometimes. She would close her eyes, as if remembering, and then she would look scared, as if everything was about to fall apart. She was sitting there, holding together loose threads that only she could see and only she could hold. No one else would help her, and she didn't ask them to.
The opportunity came, though, and I talked to her. Her name was the most beautiful sound anyone could ever emit. I would tell you, but you wouldn't understand; you wouldn't get it. To you it would just be another name, but to me, her name was the title of an extraordinary novel, the best part of the most beautiful song.
She was easy to talk to, and I found myself loving the way she teased me, loving the way she said my name. She would sit next to me and I would stop her from studying; she was very stressed. I don't think she actually wanted to study, though. She seemed to readily give up her review books and stride over to where I was photographing the shadows made on the face of one of the twins. She would say, "This is a good angle."
It made me feel like I had just painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
But we didn't have much time left. She was one year younger than me, and I was going to college in a few months. I was going to study writing.
"Biochemistry," she said, when I asked her what she wanted to study when she got into college.
She had one more year to go, however, and I couldn't wait for her. I would if I could. I would sit inside her bookbag and listen in on her classes. I would hear the intelligent things she would say, and watch her take copious notes about material that I could never comprehend.
I envied every male in her grade, every person who had the luxury of having classes with her. I envied her family, for seeing her every day. Her friends, for talking to her effortlessly. Her enemies, for having a stronger bond with her than I did, even if it was negative.
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1 of 4 chapters.