pale

pt. 1

No wonder she was so pale, every amount of darkness she possessed was in her mind.

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Her hair was a dark brown mess of straight and wavy strands.

I noticed the very first time she spoke to me her low, growling voice that rattled up from deep in her chest.

Her skin was a pale, chalky white, her cheeks lightly dusted with tiny freckles that reminded me of far away constellations.

Her name was Tate.

The first time I met Tate Matthews was on a chilly day in November, about two years ago.

She was perched upon a bench in the cemetery, humming and twirling a deep red rose between her fingers.

As I passed her up and headed for my father's gravestone, I heard the crunching of grass from behind me.

"Death sucks, doesn't it?"

I almost flinched at the voice by my ear.

Her breath warmed my cheek and ear, and as I spun around, I noticed how close we were.

She took a step back, smiling mischievously with her deep red lips.

I didn't answer.

"How'd you know him?" she asked, letting go of her rose with one hand to point at my father's grave.

I looked at the ground before replying,"My dad."

"Wow," she said, staring back down at her hands as they spun the rose between them once again.

I noticed the blood on her fingertips and palms from the thorns of the rose.

She then asked how he died, and I briefly explained his type of cancer and the brain tumor it gave him.

"Wow," she said again, this time looking up at me.

I met her gaze.

She seemed to sadden more as she asked more questions and received answers from me.

I explained my relationship with my dad, how it was very rocky, and she seemed to understand personally.

We slowly made our way back over to her bench, and as we talked more, my gaze went from her, to my lap, then to my dad's grave, then back to her.

After an hour or so of conversation, I checked my watch and excused myself.

"Will you be back?" she asked desperately, twiddling the rose more frantically between her thumb and forefinger.

I gave her a simple nod.

I smiled slightly at her.

"I'm Tate, by the way," she mentioned, since we hadn't bothered to discuss our names.

"Eugene," I smiled wider, turning around to leave.

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