(someday i'll do real art. sorryyy. i think writing before bed gives me nightmares. weird! this is also very weird. i should go back to writing about potatoes and robots. toooo serious.)


So in my town there was this girl, right? She told all the local boys their fortunes, dressed in loose clothing that always seemed to find a breeze to flutter in, and made this beautiful clattering music when she moved, as her person was constantly draped in a multitude of pale colored beads. She never said so, but everyone knew she was a gypsy, same as they knew their own selves—which is to say “with unflinching certainty” while truly knowing nothing at all.

She was young, our age, and on her own. Though the other girls snidely criticized her and were taught to hate her, they wanted to be her. They wished to have her freedom, to break out of their dull, socially acceptable lives and reveal their inner carnal desires. Of course, they were incorrect in their assumptions of her so-called lecherous lifestyle, but it didn’t matter. She had become a symbol for all that they wanted but could never be.

Unlike the girls, the boys did not try to hide their desire for her. They would pine after her, all smooth caramel skin and mysterious curves. She never paid them any mind, though, and only ever played them when she was desperate for money. The girl could not be touched.

Her hair fell in waves all the way down to her waist, but she always kept it pulled back. She told me that this was because she was afraid it would get caught twined around some too-interested boy’s fingers one day, leaving her helpless to escape.

I never thought she was afraid of anything until then. I still don’t think she really fears anything—it’s just who she is. Or was. Unreal.

Her face was round, her nose sharp. Framing a set of darkyawningblack eyes were elegantly curved eyebrows that yearned so much for one another that they met in the middle. Boys were caught between their lust for her and their fear of her. And, though I too was made to fear her and lust for her, I loved her.

And I was the only one.

She was beautiful, certainly, but everyone could see that. Only I was to hear her secrets and her hopes and her endless sadnesses. Only I was to kiss that tender spot beneath her ear, where the curve of her skull met the soft arch of her neck. Only I was allowed to push my fingertips through her hair, dragging slowly and carefully around the tangles so as not to startle her.

I loved her and she let me love her.

I don’t know if she ever truly loved me—I don’t think she did, honestly, though I made myself believe she did. It was nearly enough to make me happy.

And then one day she left me a note, written in her scratchy hand on a movie ticket she found in my pocket. When I read it, all I could think of was the feeling of her hand on my arm during that movie, clutching and releasing at odd intervals. Clutch. Release. Clutch. Slide so slowly, release.

It said, “I had to.”

She was gone.

The other day I went into Kmart to buy a set of potholders for my son’s new house and I think I saw her. I can’t be sure because I’ve seen her everywhere, all my life. But I think it was really my girl in that red vest, marking laundry detergent with lower price stickers and the last remains of her life.

I think it was.