Her Name is Sorrel
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Her name is Sorrel. It’s Cherokee or something.
First name: Shelby; middle name: Sorrel.
I called her “squirrel.”
While the other guys were falling head over heels into her large, fawn eyes, I avoided them. She was practically a liberal hippie. Bohemian linen pants, deep brown hair skimming her waist, floral canvas backpack. Different.
Come sophomore year and the flood gates of hell opened - never had English been so difficult.
So like a twist of fate, I found Sorrel sitting next to me and like any logical person, I took advantage of my resources - the girl was practically Ralph Waldo Emerson trapped in the body of a teenage girl.
Then I fell; I fell hard.
I fell for her laugh that sounded like a dying walrus. I fell for her crooked teeth. I fell for her Nesquik eyes that had hints of green trapped in the spectrum.
“Forever,” she’d whisper.
But forever isn’t tangible.
This an anecdote of my first heartbreak.
It’s a story about love; not a love story.
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