Maybe One Day

3

She cried more than she let on to anyone, even me. I only saw her cry in the night time, under the stars and the smoke. She would blame it on the cigarettes but I always knew, and I would pull her all the closer. She always tried to be so brave, she was seen as so much less than she was. She always wore tough shoes and never wore heels. She said her mother wore heels, but only because she liked shoes that announced her arrival. 

Her parents were almost a taboo subject. In the whole 3 years I knew and loved her she only spoke about them about 4 times. I would never ask about them, and on the rare occasions that she did speak about them I never once interrupted. This was her life after all. She said her mother was a social advocate and her father was a cheating, drunken scumbag. Neither of them payed her any attention. Her mother was always at some dinner or some bridge game and her father was always passed out or screwing his secretary. She grew up like that. She told me once, just before the end, that she had never known love until she met me, and I'd loved her so much back then.

I was falling for her pretty fast, the more she spoke the quicker it happened. And I could hear her talk for days and not once yet bored, or tell her to stop. Not once would it even occur to me that she should stop. I could feel myself more and more wanting to help her, wanting to pull her closer than she already was, wanting to pull her so close that she was enveloped in me and nothing could ever hurt her again. 

I spoke too, sometimes. I would tell her about work and about how these changes were planned but were they changes at all? I told her about things I overheard and things I shouldn't know. She had this knack where people would feel so comfortable with her that they would instantly share anything. She told me once that she didn't trust anyone in this world, but she made everyone trust her, including me. She knew me inside and out after about a month. But I still don't know her, and now I guess I never will.