And then I see her every day. We laze on the beach, we swim, we queue for ice creams in the local shop and eat them on the pier. We point at the ships sailing toward France, making up stories about what they are doing, none of which involve carrying cargo, but mystery and scandal and intrigue. She tells me my ideas are stupid, and I agree with her. Most things I say are stupid, but I suspect, somehow, that she likes this part of me.
In the evenings, we'll play PlayStation games and watch TV with the gang, where, from our spot at the back of the room she will lean into me during the scariest part of the horror flick where the dreaded monster reveals itself, and whisper, “Is that you?”
We will stifle laughter with our sleeves until tears roll down our cheeks, and once the giddiness has subsided, and those who have thrown us filthy looks turn away, I will risk a secret glance. She’ll be wiping her eyes, the room so dark that I can barely see her face, and I’ll know, beyond any doubt, that I would already be kissing her if there was nobody else in the room.
Late into the night, I will take her home and let my car idle outside her caravan park for an hour, because we keep talking. We can’t stop. There is always more to say about people we’ve known and the things they’ve done to us. Of how it feels to be a particular person, in a particular place at a particular time. The things about our lives that are so different, and the things about the insides of us that are the same. I have never spoken to other people like this.
I am enthralled by the way her stiff awkwardness melts when she lets herself talk, by the movements of her hands in emphasis of her point. When she mentions her mother, she claws a hand over her throat like pulling back a phantom hand, strangling her words, stifling her self expression, and I feel like if I ever drew that motion I would be making art of something so deep, like the core essence of her. It would be more intimate work than if I captured her without any clothes.
Sometimes she’ll say something offhand that puts so precisely into words, a feeling I’ve suffered, but could never express. I remind myself every time to write these things down, but I never do it. I get home and I forget the words, recalling only the feeling.
I’ll ask questions to keep her talking until it is clear that we’ve sat and talked in my car for longer than what’s acceptable. Then she’ll slip out the passenger door and I’ll watch her go.
I’ll follow her path all the way through the park until she disappears behind that big mobile home on the corner, and I sit for longer, needing to bathe in the feeling of being around her for a few more minutes.
I’ll go home and climb into bed. Sometimes Claire stays over, and I have to listen to her having sex with Shane in my sister’s bedroom. At those times, I feel weird and lonely, yearning for something more in my life. I put in my earbuds and block out the thoughts with my iPod until I fall asleep.
And tomorrow, I’ll do it all over again.
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huloooo am alive
my brain is currently filled with bedo brainrot eheheheh
anyway how have u been doing mochi?
VIOLET!!!!
Hello partner 🫡
I'm also reporting back that i'm alive and well!!! I'm still a bit busy with school stuff, but yea it's all good!
Mind telling me about ur bedo brainrot 🤭?
But anyway, coming back to you, how are you viviii??? I'm hoping you've been well and just overall healthy! I'm also doing good, so i hope you're the same (๑˃̵ ᴗ ˂̵)و
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It's very possible that the only way to ensure you don't become a conservative old person is to keep checking whether you're wrong. Every time. Genuinely mull over the opposing viewpoint even and especially when it's uncomfortable. You absolutely cannot a) consider yourself safely incapable of terrible principles because you're a good person, or b) treat a your disgust reaction to something as a moral truth. You can't get comfortable. Tiring! But you'd rather be tired and choose the right path, you know?
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