Her name is Roxy and she's fucking gorgeous.
You're pretty sure you've never seen anything like her before in your life. She's a work of art, in your opinion, but not that boring shit that ends up in museums; no, she's something else. She's graffiti on a crumbling brick wall. She's chalk art in the rain. She's an alcoholic mess with hair like the sun and eyes like the stars. Her kisses taste like galaxies, whatever the fuck that means.
She's staring at you.
Probably because you're staring at her.
"Dirky?" God, her voice is soft and sweet and surprisingly clear considering the number of beers she's put away in the last couple of hours. "What're you starring-staring at?"
"You," you say simply, because it's the truth.
Her expression crinkles and she goes just a little bit cross-eyed. "Why? 'S there somethin' on my face?"
Yeah, the collective artistic genius of every renowned artist known to man. You shrug and say, "Nope. I'm just looking," and then you lean back until you're lying down against the hood of your car and take a sip from your beer. Bad idea. You have to sit up again immediately to cough the bitter liquid from your lungs and she laughs at you, and the sound of it has you believing that story about how faeries are born from laughs. Or was that just baby laughs? Whatever.
"Shut up, Lalonde, you're drunk off your ass." You shove her and then grab her arm to keep her upright.
"Irrelephant," she responds, waving a hand carelessly. When you struggle with words as often as she does some of the mistakes stick around. You don't mind; you think it's kind of cute. Irrelephant. Yeah, you can get behind that.
She's about to say something else when something in the sky catches her eyes, and she shouts in victory, jabbing her finger up at it. "First star! I found it! I win again, Strider. You're off your game, methinks." Playfully she scoots her hip into yours. You settle an arm comfortably around her.
"You're just a cheater" is your defense, the same defense you used last night and every night before that. You've been letting her win for weeks now if only to see the excitement light up her eyes. "Come on, I've got shit to do and you've got a hangover to sleep off."
"Pshh. I don't have hangovers," she scoffs.
You roll your eyes, sliding off the hood and offering her a hand to do the same. "Tell it to my depleted aspirin supplies."
You get her in the car and slide in behind the wheel. She props her feet up on the dashboard and tucks her hands behind her head, letting out a contented sigh. The last rays of the sun catch her just right and light up her outline like that's their purpose. She looks like an angel.
If you told her that, she'd hit you.
Pulling out of the field and back onto the state highway with the windows rolled down, Roxy whistles along to the radio, some soft rock song you've never heard, and you don't think things could possibly get better than this.