𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐄'𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐌 . bob dylan

𝑰𝑰.

Bobby was woken a few hours later by a faint thundering storm cloud, but Magda hadn't, so he sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. He turned on one of the matching side lamps and pushed Maggie's long hair away from her pretty face. He looked down at her, pressing his fingers against her skin like holding out your hand for a butterfly to land on.

Bobby thought that Magda was one of the prettiest girl's in the entire world, and definitely the best-looking woman he knew.

Magda was the type of pretty that people admire. They don't seethe with anger (like when brunette girls see natural blondes) or grimace at her, and instead they just gazed at her with high regard. Just looking at her was like a candid moment, a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

When New York got warm and humid during the summer months, Maggie would let her hair down and wear beautiful white dresses that her grandparents sent her from Greece. And when Bobby and her took day trips to the small towns outside of New York, they'd go to farmer's markets or sit in the great empty parks and Bobby would play his guitar for her and Magda would read pioneer poetry to Bobby and old couples would stop them.

Whether they were working a peach till or walking down a boardwalk along a lake, old folks would stop Magda and tell her she was a beautiful young woman. Mag would smile at them, and become sheepish, and they'd keep complimenting her long black hair or her striking green eyes.

When they kept walking, Bobby would kiss her head and Maggie would talk about how being old must be like having a different life entirely, considering you can so easily make a young girl feel good with a few words.

And Bob would stop her–on that boardwalk or sidewalk or halfway through a sentence–and kiss her red lips.

✶

Magda was asleep, but the faint flashes of Bobby in her drowsy state were lively.

She dreamed of his icy blue eyes, one eye winking and then opening, and the other doing the same. The corners of his eyes would crinkle, and she knew that below the foggy picture in her head, he would be laughing or smiling.

Her friends from college all married big, non-thinking men. She loved Bobby because of this. Even since she'd known him during her junior year of college classes, he was always set apart from the other people around him.

Bob didn't have to try to be interesting like the other men she knew. The uninteresting boys wore loafers without socks and carried around a satchel and talked about Lord Byron and the American Revolution.

Bobby wore boots and a paperboy hat and he liked folk music, instead of the jazz college boys pretended to adore. Usually, if she went out to a bar or a party with her girl friends, a guy would hit on her by reciting a cheap poem about tan skin or flowers. While they were flattering, they weren't unique, and it was entirely forced.

When she met Bobby, though, he talked to her about normal things, like if the railing looked like it was going to give out or if it was just him.

Bob didn't talk to get her–or anyone–to notice him. He talked because he had something to say and he was the type of person that people listened to.

He wore his suede jacket–which she dreamed about now–for the first two years they knew each other. He'd now swapped it with a leather jacket or a crisp suit jacket.

But Bob still talked just the same and liked the same things. He grew his hair out a little and started wearing ties, but he still liked most of the same ideas, and he wasn't going to change for anybody.

Not Magda, no matter how much he loved her. Not his mother, not his father, not for the fans of his music, and certainly not the press.

Magda thought that everyone should meet someone like Bobby in their lifetime.