The Story of Us

I see a lady eating a hotdog, her cheeks freckled amd flushed pink, her oval face highlighted gold by the sun. She has messy curls that cover her forehead and escape from her hasty bun. Her nose ring seems a character on its own and I like it.

Looking at her I feel awe-struck and mesmerized, though I feel like I shouldn't. I feel as though she knows something that she shouldn't. Or something that she knows that I don't yet but I should. I feel positively uncomfortable.

Conceivably, with her intense eye contact, the mixed feelings I somewhat understand, I believe I have just discovered a new friendship. Or a new kind. The genuine ones are never the same. Marie, with her curly bangs and dull nose ring, is like a face I see once or twice a week af the school cafateria or along the street. But she stands out and I could always tell her apart.

With my reservations and hers, we found ourself breaking walls of every kind, even the digital kind. Not forcefully, nor persuadingly as though we were begging for each other's attention. But slow, beautifully slow, quiet and effortless. Our friendship had seemed to be quietly casual for some time but right now, with our shared hotdog, I know it's not true.