The Red, The Black and The Scarred

Her name is Tally, and she always wears long sleeves

Even in the summer, when it's boiling hot, she has her sleeves all the way down over her knuckles and I can see the sweat on her temples. It's a shame, because her lover (a person named Kelly) always says that she's got the best arms the in the world. I often think that maybe she's got something she doesn't want to show the world and Kelly says, in their weirdly soft voice, "She's not hiding anything that the normal person doesn't have. But, it seems like you don't have any kid -- here --"

This is usually the part where they grab my hand and roll up my semi-long sleeves and looks at my white wrists.

"You have nothing, but maybe it's 'cause you're young, but when you get to Tally's age, you'll have 'em growing up onto your shoulders."

I don't know what Kelly is saying, they always talk and never explain, but that's okay because I dislike the truth when it's boring and they make their not-yet-the-truth-yet-not-yet-a-lie beautiful.

Her name is Tally and she always as her hair up.

Even in winter when it's freezing her hair is curled into a bun on the top of her head or a high tail. Her hair is brown, golden in the cold sun, and shines wether or not it's in the light. A good view to see it from is five inches down, and looking up. The small hairs on her neck curve forward, and they seem to tickle her peachy skin like elegant fingers. That winter was the winter Kelly left and Tally was all alone.

Just before Kelly left, they told me (with the face of a concerned mother) "Tally's got a secret. Something beautiful -- but can hurt ya. Stay. Away."

I'm not sure what Kelly meant, they had walked away in their thick jeans and tall combat boots and puffy red jacket and disappeared into a blue Pontiac, only to drive away with the windows rolled up and fogged. They left me alone at their not-so-new doorway, and I didn't feel a thing.

I didn't want to anyway.

Tally picks me up three minutes later, and by the look on her face, I can tell that she drove past Kelly. She wraps a blanket around me, and I thank her and we drive to the park. It's our little place; that park and us. That place has been here for as long as we can remember, seen more things then I have, grown more then I have and loved more then I have. It's been loved more then me.

Tally says that this winter is going to a cold one and I couldn't have agreed more.

Her name is Tally, and she always wears shorts.

Even in fall where the wind wipes at my own covered legs, she has her legs cleanly shaven and shorts slipped on loosely. It's a shame that Kelly left -- they would always be the light of the group.

The cold weather makes me shudder, and I look up, the bottom half of my face is buried in my thick scarf and my head is tucked into a warm hat. My eyes open slowly, and I see Tally smile and all the chills go away, and warmths fills my stomach and my chest and my face and everything. My body is on fire, she's the match and the cool air was the gasoline. That day is the first time I've ever actually touched Tally (she had held my hand to school) and its was magical.

"Do you miss Kelly?" I ask. Her hand leaves mine and her smiles disappears. I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have said that.

"I miss a lot of people." She admits.

Her name is Tally, and she loves the Spring.

That day in the Fall, I had gone home and rolled up my sleeves and saw something on my hand. On my right wrist was a red tally mark, two inches in length, and permanent (I tried scrubbing it off, but it only turned my skin pink). I go to Tally in the Spring, with a thick bracelet on my wrist and she gives me her fire of a smile again. She loves the Spring because no matter where we travel in her red bike, she tells me how wonderful life is. She has her eyes closed and the wind in her hair and her hands are glued to the handles and we're going down a hill and it's so fun to feel my stomach and drop and I know by the shrill yelp that pours from her smiling slips confirms that she loves the feeling too.