Springtime Blues

a brief sketch of one of the more charming beings i've encountered.

She was the type of girl he’d always imagined falling in love with �" a rocky composite of accidents and spindly limbs and taste that always seemed to work out in the end. She was an artist; I mean of course she was an artist. Had he ever loved anyone else? She spent time on lines and block color �" it was her thing �" and had a lovely obscure attachment to everything. Her hair, oh god her hair, it was a swirling careful mess of perfect color and lifethreatening chaos, spilling atop a wide face of gorgeous harmony �" large, always astounded eyes and a twee nose (pierced with a ring!) and a small, pretty, red mouth that was so terribly delicate. Her inexplicable grace: they way she consumed cigarette smoke in elongated accidental clouds and walked with a loping bounce, as if keeping her feet on the ground required concentration. The way she could toss back a 40 and return with a giggle, only fragmentarily worse for the wear. Even when she was trashed, she was magnificent �" her eye makeup would run just a bit and her hair escaped some and her clothes seemed to fit her a little more loosely, and her bubbling mirth emerged like water.

I envied her.