The reflections of light on water played in her heart when she looked at him. He wasn't the beautiful sort by any means, but his intensity and smart wit more than compensated for his aesthetic shortcomings. She loved an odd, ugly type with black shoes and white socks pulled up to mid-calf- the kind of person who seemed like each movement was a question or a threat. Henry was all these things in spades. He could never meet your gaze for more than a few seconds before casting it just off your face, a little above or to the side. And when he laughed at something, which indeed was rare, he seemed to lose control of his body- almost as if his brain hadn't told his limbs what it was reacting to and his limbs, startled by the overwhelmingly loud and boisterous noise, were trying to escape. It was a funny thing to see and she tried daily to strike his funny bone- for it was her favorite and most important goal.
She was the type to fill journals with poetic musings- and I mean journals. Plural. Many plurals. It's like her mind was constantly on fire with thought and her hands, pen and paper a slave in the effort to put it out. Not that it could ever be put out- not that it should. It was, at first, his favorite thing about her. So mysterious. What was she writing in those things? He had to find out. It look him a long time to be allowed entry into one but in the meantime he found other favorite things about her- like how comfortable she was just being- anywhere- just present. She would look you in the eyes and it would be terrifying because you had her full attention. If she was looking at you, it was in the eyes, with open ears and open heart, with every thought anchored on you. He was not brave enough to hold her gaze. He did not trust what she would find there.
Hey! I'm Andie Bottrell, a multidisciplinary creative living in Springfield, MO. I share stories (autobiographical and fictional), poems, and other creative or personal musings here.