August 9, 2013: I Write About Girls at Odd Hours

Jimmy was the coolest girl I’d ever known. Her real name was Jamie, but she insisted everyone call her Jimmy. She’d gotten hit with a baseball in her right eye when she was only five and at fifteen, she’d found her way onto her high school baseball team playing shortstop. I cheered at every one of her games from the stands, so proud of her for being the only girl. 

She never wore her long hair down in public, said she didn’t want her secrets to get shaken out, didn’t want anyone to see what was inside her. Her presence was that of a blood red moon—it frightened you to behold her. Her most noticeable trait was her birthmark, star shaped and slightly darker than her freckled colored skin. She had a thing for different colored eyeliners and mascaras and eye shadows, even though her nails were always and only ever painted teal green.

But the most striking thing about her, that most people probably never even got to experience, was the sound of being alone with her. I swear I could hear the flutter of wings around her. At first, it would only be a single pair that you could hear. But the longer you were with her, and the more silence lingered, more pairs of wings would join in. Yet, the very moment she would look up at me, interrupting my attempts to dissolve myself into a daydream, the symphony of wings would stutter and I’d come stumbling back into the room. 


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s