fetching
that was the word you used to describe me on the night of winter formal
i remember descending the stairs in that hideous, blue taffeta nightmare my mother forced me into
you had this wry look about you that night
and i remember you laughing a little to yourself
but not because my dress was ugly or because my hair was out of place
but because you were so happy to be there and i know that you hated that you were happy because you hated these sorts of things and both the irony (you always loved irony) and the exhilaration of everything made you laugh
and that made me laugh
i remember walking over to you — still wobbly in my heels — and practically falling into your arms so i didn't plummet face-first to the hardwood
i remember you letting out another chuckle
i remember my dad clearing his throat because he finally got the Nikon working and wanted to get on with the night so he could go watch his basketball game
but the thing i remember with such distinction is that word
the word you used to describe my hot mess
fetching
and while all the other boys your age were telling all the other girls my age that they looked "beautiful" or "pretty" in their white strapless dresses
you told me i was "fetching"
and that made all the difference
