At first it didn’t hit me. Our encounter didn’t happen as it did in movies, or are widely known to suppose to be in real life. I immediately noted she had strikingly blue eyes, and the unfortunate gathering of black eyeliner at the corner as it happened for me also.
She was neither a petite elfin creature, nor an amazon empress. She was average sized, average height. Her hair was crow black and I suspected some home performed dye had been used.
It never occurred to me before she could laugh until she did. So serious was she before, concentration reinforced through the furrows of her dark brows. It only seemed natural she was capable of a bewildered look, the intensity of a cat’s gaze aligned with her pasty complexion to make sure she did not lose anyone or make a mistake.
It was delicious when she laughed. We were talking briefly before the phenomena happened. Her face contorted so grotesquely that I was almost frightened, until I saw her beauty.
She was beautiful.
And I was envious, and jealous as she went on in a foreign language with her girlfriend and frowned dramatically. It never occurred to me also that she could be so cute.
Afterwards, her words became more soft spoken, her eyes intelligent and sparkled with a secret that perhaps wasn’t that secretive after all. I began to notice her on the train. The way she sat and stared into space, not even outwards towards the passing view but into an invisible dimension that nobody saw in the narrow aisle. Her eyes were bloodshot and I suspected it was something important, or was she lost in thought; I wished I could have asked her and for her to share with me something about her that I don’t know.
She was never dressed lavishly, proven at that moment smothered in her sleeping bag, revealing only a black t-shirt. One time I spotted her putting on black eyeliner using a glittery tacky little make up mirror. I had thought she would have better style, and I looked away before she caught me staring.
At breakfast the next day I regarded her with her friends.
She wore her black t-shirt and low rise acid jeans. She had a rock star look but wore a delicate silver watch and a single other bracelet. She was precious.
I watched her freak about the beautiful scenery and vainly taking amateur photos with her camera. It wasn’t really the quality perhaps she was going for. Her chin rested on her spare hand, the other wavering in the air according to the train’s sway, and clicking occasionally to capture another similar lay out of wild land.
I studied her profile and went about to mark down her distinctions. The way her nose had a slight ridge, almost hawkish, that refrained her from the grasp of petty perfect noses. Her hooded eyes, lightning blue, made to be almost colorless under the filtering sun. It was difficult to exact what made her stand out. Was it her slightly freckled skin, tiny speckles of light brown and sometimes yellow. The square jaw and heartshaped hairline. My eyes rolled around desperately so that I may be able to describe her so that you may fall in love with her also.
I loved her.
She was not model thin. She had curves, but which did not spill over unflatteringly over the waist of her jeans. Her hair was just naturally styled, curved at the right places; magically, it did not seem dirty, nor greasy as the rest of us, spilling over her back carelessly. Lips that did not protrude in the modelesque pout, their shy proportions only complimentary to her quirky feminism. I imagined kissing her, what it would be like to touch sensitive lips; a female.
When we all reached the train station I was lucky enough to catch a brief glimpse, enough to make for a quick good bye. I didn’t know her well enough for any intimacy, we just said goodbye in her romantic language, my voice much too raised, almost shrieking. My cheeks seeming to inflame and crush my eyes to non-existence. My vision of her blurred.
I walked out the door way, a little longing. I hadn’t even known her name.
* I recently read a post about stories that were better off left for the reader’s imagination. Trying around with the overly descriptive; I never felt I did ever exact what an author’s imagery of their character was like in their ironic word choices, except one, paraphrased. “He lifted his chin to peer down at the students, so that he occupied the essence of a snooty dolphin.”