Her eyes
that of a
tacky 80’s pool.
Light blue
with a billion
little tiles,
like pixels on a screen.
She’s shorter than most, easy to miss in a crowd. Yet her outfits scream something violent and sure of herself. Her work ethic and dedication speak not of cutting cakes and sipping tea in a house built by a man who doesn’t live in the same country, let alone sleeps in the same bed.
She will not be her mother, her mouth doesn’t say but everything else about her does. She will be someone quite different. Who that is, she isn’t quite sure yet. But she likes what she’s seen thus far.
She’s the only girl I’ve ever met who wears tweed blazers or polar-bear coats voluntarily. Coco Chanel’s love child, alive and angry in the 21st century.
The only female I know who also enjoys spending time in a room full of sweaty men, mirrored walls and ugly orange paint. And who doesn’t feel the urge to chat with a single one.
It’s almost funny, the days of finding something as mundane as eyes ‘attractive.’ It feels like only yesterday real people a lot like her, painted our walls in their imperfect smiles. Julia Roberts, Meg Ryan. Cameron Diaz. Yesterday’s untouched ideals of beauty. Their unique imperfections making them poster-worthy. Somewhat relatable. Now we fantasize about looking the same, with the slogan that if you don’t like it, change it.
But yes, I’m still about empowering women and being a feminist. Just open for change that comes from a knife. The owner of the blue eyes lets me swim in them for as long as I want. And that feels somewhat special like I’ve earned it, as her friend.
She is possibly one of my only friends whom I remember in-depth how and where we first met.
Dinosaur earrings made out of clear jelly, with tiny pigments of purple sparkles which shook as she talked.
She matched them with a fine pearl necklace and sparkly purple eye-shadow, of course.
I remember thinking she was extremely chatty and unlike anything I had seen or met before.
She had been watching me for a while (she had told me) in an environment familiar to both of us. It was my favorite coffee shop. And she just started working there.
It was owned and operated by a Norwegian couple, both equipped with the equivalent of lemon-zest for personalities. When consumed right, they were like discovering Saracha for the first time.
The owner himself was obnoxious and introverted. Always with a book or some witty remark on hand. His wife was bitchy and sometimes scary. And yet, the most affectionate person in the room. Their marriage was built on shared interests. “… Honesty, great-sex, cigarette breaks and coffee.” Lots of it.
This formula seemed to work wonders on their 19-year marriage, as they worked together and still seemed to like each other. Weird- we both thought.
At home, they produced two high-achieving, unspoiled kids. Together they made a pack a day look like the new marital glue.
She always greeted me with a ‘hello baby;’ something my mother used to call me. It always had a way of opening me up.
And then she/he would slide into the chair opposite me and together we would go through the contents of our days; picking apart anything that didn’t make sense. And finding the right words to toss it out with. “People are assholes. Work in hospitality and you’ll soon see it,” she would often tell me.
They became like surrogate parents to both of us. I visited them almost every day after school, on account that no one was home to talk to.
Their marriage, somewhat unsanitary to normal standards, was to us the only one we saw where two people were selfish enough to love each other or, should I say loved each other enough to let the other be selfish. They stayed because they wanted to not because they had to.
I noticed when she first popped up to take my order those eyes of hers. They looked sad, yet her voice was excited. Like she had planned what to say for a while. Alive with questions tumbling out like lumps of whipped-cream, dollop after dollop. In shock, I took a deep sip of my coffee as she continued to talk.
It was like three different people were jammed into this one 5 foot 4 girl.
In group settings or with people she doesn’t feel quite comfortable around, she hides. Looking only for a moment before jabbing them in the side with a bitchy comment or three.
A total contrast to who she is around me. It’s somewhat disorientating when she does this. She never involves me in her homicides, however, I usually try and massage the tight corners out of her words, with a laugh or the peace-offering of another glass of red. It only happens every now and again.
I know it’s because she feels off-balance by something said and is trying to deal with it by not dealing with it. She cuts up the other person as a human-sacrifice to her pain or a distraction.
The next day her blue eyes will fill with remorse.
The same eyes I remember from the coffee-shop. She pours her sadness into my own, just from one look. A reminder that what she doesn’t say, you can often feel from her eyes.
Tonight her eyes read disappointment, sharing the same likeness to that of the weather outside.
She doesn’t want to talk about it so we don’t.
Louis Armstrong textures the air. A string of trumpets lunge from where he cares to pause, like Coo-coo birds from a clock.
And the fairy-lights swing dance in the breeze as the rain licks our faces, like butter on toast.
Beyond-curious 