i don't think she wanted me to write about her

Exactly three turns is what it takes to get the ever so slightly frayed cuffs of her jeans just perfect.

She adores these jeans. She smiles when she pulls them out of her closet. They are old. They are soft. They are comfy. They have a hole in the left leg from where she climbed a park fence to feed a squirrel one night long ago. With a boy who wore the costume of the one.

She’s not joking when she tells you that she really doesn’t care what she looks like in them. Though that’s pretty easy to say when her ass in these jeans prove, without a doubt, that God certainly did not rest on the seventh day.

She is sporting a hastily-prepared bun with a pencil stuck through it. Her hair looks its best when it’s messy. Even she’d admit that. If there weren’t too many people around.

She is rocking a pair of old, white Chucks. They take her back to a youth that really isn’t all that far away in time’s rear view mirror. He prefers Adidas. He reminded her frequently. She nodded. He said, “You don’t care what I think, do you?” She kissed his nose and went back to whatever she was doing.

The dangly gold earrings seem to match her long necklace. But they don’t really. Shhhh. Just a happy little accident that they look so much alike. The earrings and the necklace each have their own story. And she’ll tell them to you. After a few drinks. And she’ll giggle at some tale she won’t share when she mentions “Marrakesh.”

The necklace reflects brief flashes of the afternoon sun, as it’s nestled against the grey tank top, under her short sleeve plaid shirt that is perpetually half-buttoned. Or half-unbuttoned, if that’s your world view.

She’s always used art as not just an outlet, but as a clarifier. Writing is her first love. But when it deserts her for another, she’ll also draw and sometimes paint.

She’ll tell you she’s terrible at painting. She’ll tell you a lot of things. But she’s quite talented. As is the case with most everything else she does.

This time she’s trying pottery.

Touching is needed.


Dirty hands seemed fitting too.

She makes concentration absolutely captivating.

Furrowed brow.

Widened eyes.

Biting her bottom lip.

One stubborn wisp of hair that she tries to push behind her ear with a mostly clean wrist — adorned by three beaded bracelets — and useless accompanying head tilt.

This is where an extra set of hands is nice.

8 thoughts on “i don't think she wanted me to write about her

  1. Hey how did you know writing’s my first love? And how did you know I paint when words desert me? And often say I’m bad at it? And how did you know about my stubborn wisp of hair that I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to tuck behind my ear all ay?

    Call it subjective reading if you want but I’m just going to pretend this is about me. Thanks, Peter, I like it!

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