Pass Me By
prologue
Blue eyes stared on and blond, knotting hair flew in all directions. A navy sweatshirt hung off her body, concealing a pure white dress reaching the girl’s knees. On her feet, as per usual, were those murky, mud splattered boots.
She was there again, this time leaning against an old brick apartment complex across the street; that girl by the name of Estella Marie Montgomery, the girl with no story. Her eyes flickered to mine, a movement done just as every day before. Those blue eyes, how they mocked me as if she knew her story, her song, was the only one I had yet to learn. Almost as if proving my point, there was a miniscule tug on the right side of her lips.
But this was not like her: yesterday she cowered behind the street lamp. And the day before that, she had sent me a full-arm wave. Every day since I had first set my eyes on her, she had acted like a different person.
Who was this Montgomery girl?
My focus dropped to the guitar in my lap as I strummed a few chords, earning a few pennies from the pedestrians passing by. George Carol, Mina Farrow, Dunkin Robinson… I thought, naming the three who had dropped their pocket change in my hat. How was it I knew them, infrequent by-passers, more than the regular Estella?
But when I peered up again to send her a questioning glare, she was gone.
She was there again, this time leaning against an old brick apartment complex across the street; that girl by the name of Estella Marie Montgomery, the girl with no story. Her eyes flickered to mine, a movement done just as every day before. Those blue eyes, how they mocked me as if she knew her story, her song, was the only one I had yet to learn. Almost as if proving my point, there was a miniscule tug on the right side of her lips.
But this was not like her: yesterday she cowered behind the street lamp. And the day before that, she had sent me a full-arm wave. Every day since I had first set my eyes on her, she had acted like a different person.
Who was this Montgomery girl?
My focus dropped to the guitar in my lap as I strummed a few chords, earning a few pennies from the pedestrians passing by. George Carol, Mina Farrow, Dunkin Robinson… I thought, naming the three who had dropped their pocket change in my hat. How was it I knew them, infrequent by-passers, more than the regular Estella?
But when I peered up again to send her a questioning glare, she was gone.
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First story on Mibba! Hope you enjoy.