I spent the whole of summer riding my new bicycle around, exploring the neighborhoods, and going to the doctor's. Now I have bronchitis for the first time in my life, as well as my first cavity. I've turned 20 and I'm falling apart.
Below: Sharpie and sketchbook paper
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There once was a girl named Olive.
I had driven 25 minutes to a small, dark coffee shop with three tables. Here they drip brew coffees one at a time into cups that make you feel like a giant. I watched the male barista high-pour boiling water onto a rounded tablespoon of grounds, and paid seven dollars for a miniature gin glass of seltzer and what had better be the best coffee in my life. I watched people walk by the narrow, tinted door, dumping packet after packet of stevia into my drink, chewing nervously on the end of a wooden mixer. I was unimpressed and thinking about my increasing parking fee when she flung open the cafe door, an hour and a half late, despite her reassured eagerness to meet me. She opened the door and stepped inside, looking for me in the sub-par lighting. She peered wearing large, thin-rimmed glasses and a ragged zip-up hoodie with the sleeves torn off, an inevitable Pixies band patch sewn to the back. She was a long wisp of a girl, and her legs went up forever into a black skirt. I waved from the corner, in my black and white striped turtleneck, cropped just above my belly button. She walked over to me and threw herself down in an exhausted way, apologizing and mentioning something about running errands, then trailed off. I did my best to smile in the way I do when I feel charming. It caught her off guard, and she excused herself as she stood up to order a drink. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, brushing my lower lip with the edge of my mug. One of the first things I notice about people are their hands. Don't ask me why. Hers were long and thin with good motion and natural nails. The kind of hands that might get cold easily. Her voice did not match her delicate appearance. I wondered if it was a front. She was either incredibly confident, or incredibly nervous. We had forced but interesting conversation, mostly about her. She'd left home at an early age, hitch hiked as far as Colorado, briefly ate from dumpsters (I looked closer at her animatedly moving mouth with speculation. She lived part time in New York. She wrapped up her list with adding that she liked to draw pictures with pens and write poems around them. It was my turn to excuse myself, and I walked down a long hallway to the bathroom. I looked back and saw her sitting at the table, resting her face on her hand. I felt like I was boring her. I wondered if we'd end up kissing or holding hands. My heart beat violently in my chest. 20 minutes later, we were walking down Congress Street, in front of my possible future college. During the summer, locals and students try and sell their art. We shared a cigarette, but she walked in front of me. She bought me a baby succulent in a wine cork. She saw her friends on the sidewalk, sitting beneath a tree across from the park. Manic-Panicked, unshaven, pierced and inked. They talked excitedly and asked strangers for cigarettes. We watched a street performer contort themselves around a metal hoop suspended in the park. A short girl with long brown hair sat next to me and made small talk for 15 minutes. Olive stood away from me, talking to a girl she'd kissed on top of the head. I felt out of place and in the way. To be honest, I felt disrespected. I stood up and told everyone how nice it was to meet them. I said goodbye to Olive. In one last silly attempt, I hugged her and softly told her she was cute. She repeated it back to me- "You're so cute!", and hugged me with one arm. I regretted pressing myself so closely against her in public like that. I walked back to the parking garage and paid $6 for two hours of whatever the hell just happened back there. *Update- I let the succulent wither away. I still have it in my jewelry box. Depressingly Unromantic Girl Date: 3/10 Recently, I ran from a failing relationship.
One thing I learned from the past was that it takes two people to fight. An unfortunate thing I also assumed was that love required two people too. After I left, I realized I could love myself, and it might be all the love I need. Below: the laundromat in my hometown |
Avery Mae Tries Germany
AuthorMy name is Avery Mae, and it's nice to meet you. I like to make impulsive decisions to convince myself I have an exciting life, then get upset when it results in unfavorable consequences. ArchivesCategories |