zachbissett

Girl From Class

In fiction, girls on 12/01/2011 at 03:44

You’ve seen her somewhere before, outside the café smoking like, Old Golds or some hand-rolled shit. Maybe she’s one of the chicks who kills herself crawling into jeans Thursday nights, or she might be the type to call her dad every morning and ask the scores of sports she don’t care about—it’s hard to say with those Back to Black Aviators swallowing her face.
Give her a second.
She’ll take them off and stare into space and make you guess what’s on her mind; is she waiting on the bell or worried about walking home this time of night (the Portuguese neighborhood smells like good cooking but the dudes enjoy too much the way she walks).
What’s that?
She could be humming “Teenage Dream” or be some dispossessed Bowie freak—the black yoga pants they all wear don’t tell you nothing. That pink shock of hair, what’s that about?
Try and think if she’s let anything slip…nah, you just know she don’t like The Office, it makes her dizzy. The way she touches her lips when she talks makes you think she’s nostalgic, gets a drink in her and wants to dance to Bills, Bills, Bills and calls Nicktoons for Categories.
She bent over for her bag, you missed it! Shit she rocks those tights.
If you ever brought her home you’d show her to mom, never to dad. He wouldn’t get pink hair either, but (hopefully) he wouldn’t say anything about her being black. Don’t even think what Nana would (definitely) say. Dad might point out later the space between her teeth—What’s the deal with that?—and she’d be ruined.
Mom would be cool. Mom would ask her about school, about family, yes about her hair but she’d be cool.
Forget it.
You don’t have to think about chicks like this, you don’t have to dream of chicks. Look at her smiling. Damn, girl has style. She wrapped herself in like seven silks. Girl is shining, talking about Feminist Theory like it’s a riddle on a popsicle stick. And this girl, this girl is thin enough to fit through a hole in the fence, legs for standing on top of the world, fit to kill the covers of magazines.
Sign up for yoga, spin class, kickboxing. Maybe see her there.
Just forget it. Forget it, get out of the room and set yourself up with a nice view of her walking away.

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