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A short story about young first love written in a young girls perspective.
[1,063 words]
[March 2001]
Blood Sister's (Short Stories) - [1,473 words] [Relationships]
Music In My Pink Room (Non-Fiction) A personal reflection about a girl and how muic and her mother affected her young life. [1,443 words] [Relationships]
The Voice Of Melodi (Short Stories) - [2,641 words] [Mystical]

It was a hot and humid summer, and as usual, it was loud. Even at night the super’s kids were playing in the courtyard in front of my apartment building and cars were rolling by all night with loud, banging dance music blaring. The fan was always set up on my windowsill blowing hot air around in my small, pink bedroom. Nick and I would just sit there in the sweat listening to old Police tapes. I was always on my small twin bed, sitting up with my legs crossed, pillow in my lap, gazing out at him across from me.

He was skinny, scrawny, with a sunken in chest, scars on his face, and pimples on his cheeks. He had a funny shaped nose that tilted a bit to one side, and he had a flat butt, but more importantly than that, he had a great big beautiful smile and immense brown eyes that sparkled when he smiled-those eyes sang to me. I cherished him for those eyes. His hair was pitch black, shiny and smooth. He wore it down to his ears, enough for me to run my fingers through it. I loved touching his hair when he would lay his head in my lap, and he never stopped me, I could feel he wanted to be touched; I imagined that no one ever touched him like that before. He had delicate, soft hands, and long fingers,I always thought they were made to play the piano. They were perfectly shaped, and pointed, all the right size length. His touch was gentle; his hands were yielding, and fragile. They were like a child’s hands, innocent, clean and soft.
He had this great big happy laugh; like he enjoyed laughing-he needed to laugh. And he had this never-ending ability to always get me to laugh until I could not breathe. He was witty, bitter and sarcastic, having a smart-ass answer for everything and a joke for every occasion so he would not have to be himself, or real. He hated his family and his past but he laughed at everything and everyone laughed with him.

The way he walked was comical, like he was trying to be cool like James Dean, swaggering down the street with a Newport hanging out of his mouth. He moved and looked like a rock star, with his torn jeans, his white t-shirts, and his mc boots- clumsily yet anxiously standing aloof and arrogant. His clothes always had stains or holes in them, like he bought them in bulk like that, but they always smelled good, like Downy fabric softener. His skin was supple and always smelled clean, like a mixture of Irish Spring and Jean Nate. I remember the time when I figured out he wore that cologne. My friends laughed, “that’s for girls!” but I loved it and bought a bottle so I could smell like him.

He sang to me in this room full of heat. He would sit across from me, or stand up right in front of me and he would use my hairbrush as a mic and he would sing. It was just us sitting there, and everything was just right. His hearty laughter and his caring eyes closed softly as he sang- it was all I needed. I waited every night for him to come over, even when he said he wasn’t coming over. I would sit by my window and listen for his whistle to me. I would run to ring him in and then he would run up the stairs, grab me, give me a big long kiss, and take his seat in my room, it was magical. He sat backwards, as always, in my broken wooden chair- singing to me. These nights nothing else existed, not even the noise outside my window.

One night, while this song was playing, “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” by the Police, he came from behind me without a word and I could feel him reaching out to touch my neck with his hands. He held me near him as his hands fell softly down my neck onto my shoulders and grabbing my arms, he reached down to grasp onto my hands. He delicately folded them into his hands, bringing me closer and closer to him, without a word. His hands told me what his fumbling words never could and this song told me that everything I did was magic to him.

The summer was over sooner than I had hoped. The weather started to get cold and bitter outside and so did he. Eventually he left me. I needed to feel like things were still perfect, and I could not let him go, so we snuck around to meet in the park, or at his music studio where we made love next to his drum set. And on his lunch breaks from work, we would sit on the wall by East 55th street and stare out onto the river. I was so afraid to put my legs over the wall and he would always look into my eyes and tell me

“I will never let you fall, I got ya” while he rubbed and kissed my feet, telling me how beautiful they were. I am not sure whom I was hiding from; I never understood why we lied. I never knew why he would hold my hand coming home on the number 1 train, telling me
“I will always be a part of your life” yet he was not a part of my life anymore. I had to share him with another life he had. I was learning only to long for seeing him, hating him for leaving me at the train station when it was time to go home. I got used the times where he had to walk away, and how my heart felt as if it were on fire and would melt right where I stood. I just wanted to run after him and take him away with me, to my room, to the summer nights when he began to sing to me. I never did run after him. I eventually let him get off on his stop without me, without that one last kiss, without looking back to see his face. It ended that one day I just stopped looking back.



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September 2003

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