for the first/last/only time
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dedicated to Lost in the Starlight (Angela... thank you.)
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1. Apologies have never been her strongest points; she dodges, she jumps, she flips, she turns, she darts, she runs from any necessary blanks in a conversation when an apology is needed to fill in the empty voids.
2. She hates when you look at her with 'those brown scrutinizing eyes.' She curses strings of profanities wickedly, chucking her latest phone against a wall (while it cracks and drops dead to the ground, powerless) and glares with daggers stabbed at you in every direction (if looks could kill…)
3. Of roses, violets, apply blossoms, blackthorns, bluebells, gerberas, daisies in the world that you could hand to her in a bouquet with solemn eyes—she'd still choose a carnet of blood red lilies atop of someone's grave.
4. She states she loves variety. A variety in the boys' lacrosse, soccer and basketball team, a variety in the vibrant shades of her painted nails, a variety of words and phrases in her writing, a variety of taste in singled friends, or simply her (choice) in a variety of fickle lovers. (Impossible.)
5. Every spring, she insists on having a Christmas tree, claiming she's never celebrated Christmas (in her Jewish family) and demands for you to search everywhere you can just to get a damn tree. (And every year you do find a tree.) She claims that her envy of growing up as a child without a Christmas tree was something she needed to replenish.
6. Her daddy abused her up 'til the age of fourteen when she ran far, far away from that awful white house with the black shutters and red couch centered in the middle of a bare, bare room. She doesn't talk much about it.
7. She stands up, her back straight and her head held high, her Jansport-bag perched snuggly on her back, one hand her hip and shoots you to follow. You don't hesitate to grab her hand, ignoring the looks and snickers you receive in return, and follow her loyally without question. She's always leading you to new crazy places that she claims to be breath-taking. Because that's the kind of stuff she lives for; every day catastrophes that stir under the surface of absolutely silent pandemonium—caused by her of course.
8. People stare and people scrutinize with judging greedy gazes, they can see two people holding hands, a girl and a boy, a look of pure disgust and impatience. But what they don't see is your boiling cheeks, the thunder of the manly butterflies erupting in the pit of your stomach, the electrical shock running through your veins when her soft skin touches yours, the grin you wear is your winning smile.
Or simply the devotion you feel coursing strongly.
9. She sighs and picks up her acoustic guitar, a purple one (of course) and shoves it in your arms. "Play," she demands with her alluring voice, those orbs swimming with excitement (only a child's excitement could compete with her bubbling enthusiasm.) You play with all the heart you have left as she sings softly, her eyes closed and her breathing consecutive; your slender fingers strumming the in-tune strings, your ears listening to your own making. You watch her carefully and you realize she's the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. Aphrodite in the present day.
10. You can close your lids and recall the reluctance contorting her face as she battled her inner mind to tell you truth about her charmless charm-bracelet; Tiffany and Co.'s work.
"It's hard to explain," she says with impatience, tugging slightly on the silver bracelet. She hates when you ask questions and catch her off guard.
"I'm listening," you repeat, your eyes not wavering.
She falters (something you rarely witness). "My charmless bracelet is like a book," she struggles for words.
You nod, encouraging her to continue (when she speaks, her words need to be listened to for cryptic meanings.)
"It's my own life-story, my own booklet," she mumbles. "And my story is still being written as cliché as that sounds. It's the truth."
Her sincere eyes couldn't tell you otherwise.
11. She owns a dog named Spots although he has absolutely zero spots on his body. She tells her few singled out friends when they ask about his name, that he had spots but he doesn't anymore because he grew up and got new fur. "Bullshit," you cough.
"He wants to be different," she admits. "Everyone names their pets after the features it has, but thinking now, why do that when you could have a dog named Spots, even though he has no spots?
Touché you settle with.
12. She's always been one for meaningful words (and profanities when needed.)
13. She's silent when you kiss her. You study her face, your thoughts similar to shit.
14. You live for her rare brilliantly radiant smiles, her own grin reaching her expressive eyes. And that's exactly what you get to personally witness first-hand. One of her exclusive rare and saved-for important moments.
15. She grins at you with that smile. You decide that's your (favorite) smile of hers.
16. It makes (your) day.
17. But you, you don't tell her that (afraid of her utter satisfaction, fearing her smug expression, her unwilling words of lacked commitments.)
18. because apologies aren't good enough (and neither are you), at least your kisses (are.)
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There it is! Your one-shot! Hope you like it Angela!
Reviews would be lovely.
-another moment gone-