The Woman with the Gem on Her Forehead
Dying your hair represents change, a desire to become a new person under the new color falling around your face. Or something like that. It's likely not that deep for many, but for me, it was a personal case. I hadn't dyed my hair since college, and I was almost certain that that wouldn't change. I certainly didn't think of the looks of senile judgement my family tossed my way on my most recent quick visit.
I didn't think of anyone but myself when I worked the bright pink gel through my hair. Except that's a total lie, because I actually thought of her. Despite Sydney constantly bugging me about not moving on, She still lingers in my head like an ugly parasite. Because after a week after the whole scene and thereafter drowning my anger and upset in a bottle (or six) of 'Dan Jacksons,' I'm totally not thinking about walking out of Her apartment one final time.
Which is why as soon as Sydney and I catch a glimpse at an online post for a Mike Krol concert being held at his cousin's garage in Ocean Town, just a city off, I make the decision to escape the town for the night. To clear my head of the mixed rush of emotion inside my head. I grab some cash, bid my roommate goodbye and tell her to do the friggin' laundry before I get back. With a turn of the handles on my motorcycle, I drive off into the crisp clear afternoon.
The neighboring houses I pass through are full of silence. Lake Ville isn't exactly bustling most of the time, which I take appreciation in, some days. Right now, however, I can't help but want a little white noise in the background.
The wind rushes through my newly colored hair, and the craze of the highway thunders with blaring horns and even one hurried trucker's screeching tires. Headlights beam as the sun slowly sets. Minutes drag on, and at the sight of an exit sign that gives me a shortcut to Ocean Town, I make a turn. It passes through another city, but perhaps I can step off the motorcycle for a breather.
It's a small place, Beach City. If you can call it a city. It's much more like a suburban town than anything, along with a boardwalk that meets the beach. And it's incredibly quiet, with the exception of the sound of ocean waves. Not a lot of people are around save for a small group of teenagers walking around. Once I arrive, pink streaks stretch out from the sky, casting a light shade onto the ocean. It wouldn't hurt to visit again during the summer.
The motorcycle slowly takes me around the town to inspect what's in store. A pizza restaurant, a fry place, several other food stores that make me want to eat my feelings away. When I spot a place called the Big Donut, I skid the motorcycle to a stop in the parking lot. With donut shops, more often than not, coffee isn't too far away. I need my six-at-night coffee, goddamnit. But no donuts. Fight it off, Sheena.
The bell chimes as I enter the small donut shop, and I brush my helmet hair from my face. With a quick glimpse around, I spot the coffee pot and cups to the left side of the room. Passing by three people standing on the other side, I pay for my drink.
I sneak a look at the three people as I walk over to the coffee stand. I'm going to ignore the fact that one of them is completely purple, and not in the way in which someone isn't breathing. I'm going to ignore the fact one of them wears a giant pearl on her head. Whether they're in costumes or have some sort of family/religious tradition, not. Going. To. Ask.
Once the coffee is steaming and ready for the taking, I grab two packets of sugar for the cup. Over my shoulder, the three start talking in hushed voices. I can make out muttering, but not so much the words. Not asking.
The taller woman steps up and stands beside me, donning a leather jacket and jeans. Admittedly, a pretty face. I make no attempts to start a conversation, however. Rather, I stick with stirring my coffee.
She starts whistling and taking a cup, but drops it and creates a tumbling tower of Styrofoam. They all fall to the tiled floor. She looks at me, stuttering with her words as she tries to recover from her mistake. My eyes jump open. I know this game, even though she's a clear novice. I bolt out before she can get an actual word in. The bell rings my departure.
After sipping the 'meh' coffee, I toss the cup in a nearby trash bin. I drive away from the donut place, trying to whisk thoughts of the awkward woman out of my head. My hand grips the handles until my knuckles pale.
As I drive back toward the highway to Ocean City, my mind wanders. With a grunt of frustration, I make a stop by a small block of houses. Turning off the motorcycle again, I lean against a pole feet away. The sun had set since I entered that donut shop.
Part of me wants to go back and strike a conversation with the tall, pale woman in leather. Maybe make a joke about her little spill with the cups, or ask if that was truly her best work.
Another part, however, just doesn't want anything to do with flirting or dating for god knows how long. Sydney tried to make it easy to rebound after that brutal night by taking me to bars or attempting to sign me up for online dating sites. This lead to little to no success, with meeting women that never clicked and scrolling on , where 'matches' sneaked in dick pics through private messages. Those alone had turned me away.
I want to take the next step to move on, but... no, I don't have an excuse. I'm just not sure if I'm prepared for the next step.
With a groan, I continue my way back, driving down the next highway. Five miles ahead lies an intersection, right into Ocean City. The roads are quiet for consecutive minutes. The air feels cool against my skin. I catch up with a car not too far ahead.
I drive beside the car and first peer at the young child sitting in the back. Fluffy brown hair and a shirt with a star on the chest. It's kind of familiar, but not too much. I speed up a bit to drive by the front of the car.
My heart thuds. The tall, pretty woman with the forehead gem is driving. Unable to resist, I look through the window at the woman driving. She appears stressed, but otherwise focused on the road. Going to the concert, as well?
Her attention swerves to me. She blushes an obnoxious blue against her pale face. Her eyes shrink to molecules. A huge ball of stress at the wheel.
I flash her a smile before driving away. The smile never fades. She fails to catch up with me, because she stops at a red light. As I speed away, however, she's still in my head. I try to shake her away because I haven't even spoken to her. Yet I want to hear her talk, and more than just a fumble of broken words.
Sirens blare out from behind. Before I could even begin to worry that I was going to get a ticket, the Dondai speeds past me, followed by a police car, which has its lights blinking.
The car doesn't stop, not even as it fades from my sight. The sirens eventually grow silent. Holy shit. Just... holy shit. I break out into a grin as I drive forward in hopes to see if I can catch up with the woman, see if she gets caught or something.
But no. I arrive in Ocean Town and never see her or the police car. Off the highway and passing by a few blocks, people are shouting and music blares from the distance. Following the sound, I finally see the house. Mike Krol and his band members are setting up their garage stage, and a few people already arrived by the time I was there. I park my motorcycle, place my helmet on the handle, and walk to the front of the house.
Standing away from the crowd, I start typing away at my phone. Sydney texted me during my ride here, requesting updates and a possible picture. And she sends me another text to add, "and talk to people for petes sake! get your ass out there!"
Mike Krol introduces himself to the crowd, and they all practically jump in jubilee. Texting back to Sydney, I want to share the excitement of the crowd, but can't quite bring myself to.
"doing alright. kinda met someone but they're not here, really. I'll tell you later."
Someone stands beside me, and I peek to the side, barely lifting my head up.
She says nothing, and neither do I, but that is because I am left speechless. For a split moment, I have to fight back a grin, as well as the question of "Did you seriously sneak out of an arrest? Give me every detail."
She starts her introduction through a handshake. More formal than typical, certainly more so than your average "What's up, babe?" or "You look niiice, wanna fuck?" Now here, I don't have to roll my eyes or get out a pair of fists. My eyes wander her profile with piqued interest. The first time I get to actually look at her.
The woman had tossed off the jacket and jeans somewhere, sporting tights and the blue top with a star. From the sash around her waist to the dance shoes, she makes me think of a graceful ballerina. Though this woman is not someone I'd think of as elegant. Despite her formal entrance, I catch a glimpse of stress in her eyes. Very slightly, her fingers shake.
Best to keep immediate judgement out of the way, however. Look at yourself, Sheena. Thirty as of May, and you wear ripped jeans, a mouth piercing, and dye your hair pink due to an early mid-life crisis in an aftermath of an upsetting breakup. Besides, she's here, she wants to talk to me, and goddamnit, she's cute and interesting and adorably awkward so how bad can this go?
We shake hands, her long and thin fingers swallowed up by my far larger ones. Her hand is cold, at least far colder than mine. When she pulls away, she greets me, "Hello!" Her voice was crystal clear, pleasant to the ear and I'm captivated already.
"Hey."
Her eyes wander to my hair. One eye squints, like she's observing it. "How did you get your hair like that?"
I nod and pull my fingers through my hair. "Oh, just some cheap dye I got at Bullseye. I got it done just a few days ago so it's still fully colored and everything." Then my gaze falls to her own hair. I broke out into a smirk. "How about yours?"
"Oh, this?" She gestures to her head of also pink hair-though more of a blond/pink mix. Then she grins, eyes flashing. "It's simple, really. My appearance is just a conscious manifestation of light."
"Hmm." A poetry kind of woman. I know my Shakespeare, and Sydney has dragged me to slam poetry sessions more times than I would dare to admit. "I know how that is," I say in a sly tone, leaning forward a bit.
She smiles, eyebrows quirked up. It looks like she's about to reply with something snarky. Instead, she says, pointing a finger skyward, "By the way, I saved your planet and your species, and you're welcome."
Unable to hold back, I snort-laugh, my lids falling shut. When I open my eyes, she looks pleased, sporting a proud smile. Behind that amusing sentence, there was a tone of sincerity, like she wears those words on metaphorical sleeves. I'm tempted to ask, but then again, I just met her. It feels almost too personal to ask at the moment. Maybe another time.
And I'm already considering the thought of seeing her again. I'm fucked, I think, casting another glimpse at her through half lidded eyes.
She seems a tad nervous but willing, like she wants to meet someone but doesn't quite know how. Like she's looking to the future and wanting to find herself by getting herself out there.
Pulling out a piece of paper (which you should always have on hand for these situations) from the back pocket of my jeans, I ask if she has a pen. She blinks, looking genuinely confused.
Tapping the shoulder of a guy standing close by in a ripped tee, I ask if he has one on him. God bless the prepared ones living among us, because he has one hidden in his tote bag. After thanking him, I write down my number and begin to write up my name when I stop.
After a pause of consideration, I sign above my number a simple "S" for good ol' Sheena. Maybe it'll keep her guessing and keep her intrigued... or I'm giving myself way too much credit. Either way, worth a shot.
When I hand it to her, she looks down at what I wrote. One of her eyebrows perks, then she looks back up at me. I toss her a wink before I tell her that I hope she likes the concert. I walk away with a confident stride in my step that I didn't initially have today.
As Mike Krol announces his next song, I walk into the small crowd of people too old to be wearing ripped band shirts and spiked collars but are granted this one night to allow themselves the opportunity anyway. They are all pumping fists and one enthusiastic fan is mouthing all the lyrics to the song.
Curiosity burning, I glance over my shoulder to see what she's doing,or if she's going to join the crowd. She doesn't. Rather, she leaves and talks with her two friends on the sidewalk. I can't hear their conversation among the roaring crowd, although I notice some visible excitement between the two of them. She wears a small smile after glancing at the paper.
My breath is still catching up with me as the guitar rips through the air.
The sound of a chair being pushed back meets my ears. It's mid-afternoon the next day, and only now have I seen Sydney since early yesterday. And the second I told her, she bores me a look of utter disbelief. "You're lying!" She jumps out of her chair to approach me. Her jaw drops.
"Why would I lie about this?"
Her bright hazel eyes avert from me. "Probably so I'd shut up about you meeting people."
She's not wrong. "But seriously, I gave her my number and everything." I smile slightly and start picking at my thumbnail.
"Shut the fuck up! Look at you!" Her hands clasp my shoulders. "This is the best. I'm so happy for you! What's her name?"
I bring my fingertips to my lips as I navigate through my memories for her name. After a moment, my eyes widen as something dawns over me.
We have yet to exchange names.
What the fuck, isn't that how you start off typical conversations with people you're hitting on? Or even just for mild conversation starters? My blush is no longer one of infatuation, but embarrassment. My teeth grit as I try to come up with something, but she notices my hesitation.
"I didn't… get her name." Her eyes pop open, but to drop more salt to the wound, I add, "And I didn't give her mine, either, technically."
Her hands fall to her sides, then her hips as she regards me with a feigned serious expression. "Are you serious?"
"Look, I forgot!" Oh, yeah, that makes it better!
"You goddamn moron." She snickers and tosses a light punch on my arm. "Did you miss the first step of communicating with the human race or what?"
I slap her hand away. "Oh, stop. We'll get on the whole first name basis when she calls, or at least texts me her number."
"She better call." Sydney's eyebrows narrow, hands back at her waist. "Have you gotten anything since last night?"
By the time the concert ended, I had returned home late at night, too late for me to think about the next step of meeting this mysterious woman. I had fallen asleep the second my body met with the mattress, never once checking my phone. I feel for my phone in my back pocket and take it out. Checking the notifications, my face falls. Nothing.
"Not yet, but give it time." I cross my arms firmly. "You should've seen her, Syd. She was pretty cute, in that sorta dorky way? If you know what I mean."
She laughs. "Oh, boy. I can't wait to meet her."
Then my hand vibrates.
We exchange glances. The number doesn't register as one in my contacts, but we both are thinking the same thing. She gives me an encouraging smile and a thumbs up. With a quick turn of the heel, she slips out of the room and into her bedroom. Leaving me alone in a small living room with a ringing phone.
I pick it up and press "accept." Press it to my ear. "Hi?" My voice is not confident, more hesitant than anything.
"Hello?"
Hearing her voice again, I swear my heart transforms into an obnoxious drum in my ear. My smile returns as I try to relax myself. I lean against the wall, twirling my pink hair with a pinky finger.
"Hi, there, mystery girl."
This is a one shot that basically helped me get an idea as to how I want to write Mystery Girl aka Sheena. Because I do want to write more MysteryPearl in the future!