She has a secret.
He has enough charm to knock down her boundaries.
She can't reveal anything to anyone.
He can't help but want to know everything about her.
❀
Much against...
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Drowning out the vulgar, meaningless conversations of my friends—sprinkled with the occasional hyena-mode, full-on-teeth cackling— is turning out to be a tad more complicated than usual today. As if that weren't enough to tip me over the edge, thick beads of sweat have decided to decorate my forehead.
Shit. I loathe sweating.
The drawing pencil slips from my right, clammy hand: it's so sweaty that I can't hold it properly, much less achieve the strokes I want. I huff because that way I can't get the right angle of her delicate jaw in this sketch of a mysterious girl who's been driving me crazy.
Do I know her personally? Can't say I do.
Have I seen her around? Can't say that either.
Do I have her engraved on my retina? Definitely fucking yes.
I don't have an exact explanation of why it is so important for me to capture every detail of her face on this thick sheet of 1/4 Watman paper today; although I think it has something to do with my fear of not dreaming about her anymore—as I've been doing for three nights in a row now—and forgetting all about her.
More noise from behind the oak tree my back is against distracts me. Please don't wonder how wet my shirt is because it really sucks. I turn the volume on my headphones all the way up, thankful for the bass of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit." A breeze picks up, only spreading more heat over this already scalding clearing in the woods. The sun's rays slip through the undulating branches of the trees that surround the lake, and hit my face like a rock. A drop slides down my temple, clinging to my furrowed eyebrow.
Can someone explain to me how it's still so fucking hot in the fall? Nobody? I don't blame you, I don't know either.
My curls are out of control. I'm used to them doing whatever they want, but today they're making my life impossible. They block my vision, preventing me from catching the elsewhere, dreamy expression in her almond-shaped eyes. I persevere and, tucking a few strands behind my ears, I shade the curve of her delicately full lips with unflinching determination.
Smiling, I remember my grandmother who, just before leaving the house, caught a glimpse of my neck and recommended a haircut. According to her, I already looked like a girl. I think she's somewhat right: Goldilocks would envy me right now. Picasso too: this girl's mouth is so sensual that just looking at her makes my lips burn with the desire to kiss her.
Second snort of the afternoon, and I decide to send the weather to hell and finish outlining her features at all costs.
Major Despair Mode: Activated.
The song ends, and before the next one begins, I hear more cackling. I lower my head without taking my eyes off the pad, hoping to give them the impression that my life depends on these new lines. Hope doesn't last me two seconds...
