(That Girl)

She had that long, silky, dark brown hair that flowed down her back and swayed when she walked. I couldn't describe her face, only a thin nose, big green eyes, laughing at the world, and those wide Mick Jagger lips, not something a lot of people find attractive, though I did, and still do. Her looks were stunning, of course, and her eyes held your gaze and could make a person very suggestible. Still, it wasn't just her beauty that drew a multitude of lovers to her. It was her personality, unlike anyone's I have ever met.

It was mid-August, and the sun was high in the perfectly blue sky. The leaves had just begun to change colors from greens to yellows to oranges to deep reds and finally to purples. Each individual tree changes color at a different time, creating that rainbow of foliage to marvel at. Fall is my favorite season.

We were sitting together in the living room and I was stroking her hair, that gorgeous long hair that never had any knots in it. She turned around to face me, showing me those huge, green-glass eyes, and smiled wickedly.

"Darling, get a brush, and then you can do it right." She always called me darling, but the way she said it, it never sounded odd, only derogatory at times, which I guess was her style. I stood for her, even though my legs hurt from the many hikes she’d dragged me on over the past week, and went to fetch her brush from her room.

I guess I haven't mentioned her room yet. It was fairly boring, white walls, a baby blue bedspread and pink sheets, the occasional piece of wood-painted-white furniture here and there. Other than that, normal. A few stuffed animals, a few posters of girls and guys alike, old and new rock singers, a few rappers, her high school graduation picture. It was the summer before her first year at college, but I wouldn't be starting college for another year. I found her brush and limped back to the sitting room.

When I walked in, she smiled again and patted the floor. Obediently, I went to her and sat behind her and began to brush her hair very gently with the brush. She closed her eyes and hummed a few bars of the new pop song she had stuck in her head.

"What'd you think of it here?" she asked, suddenly opening her eyes but not daring to turn around.

"It's beautiful." I answered, and it was. The house itself was a little bland, but she shared it, and what could she do about that? But the countryside that surrounded it was magnificent.

"No, I meant the house." She was smirking. She knew the answer before I said it.

"Not really your style, is it?" I ventured. She laughed cruelly.

"No, I guess not." She let me brush her hair in peace from there.

It came time for the sunset to come again. The sky turned all colors that matched the foliage and I smiled knowingly at those leaves. What other thing on this earth is at its most beautiful as it is dying? There was a proud stature even to the withered, brown leaves that still clung to their branches like many a martyr to their beliefs.

What’s strangest about life is that it always surprises you when you least expect it to.

She wrapped her arm around me as we sat on her back porch, thick sweatshirts the only thing between our bodies and the wind. Her arm had snaked its way just above my hips, that ticklish place. She pulled me closer to her, and I let her, and soon our faces were so near that all I could see of her was green eyes, those taunting emeralds.

Kissing is all too much like I’d heard it was, wet, slimy, and intimate. Her breath smelled like the apple cider she’d bought at the store a few days ago, the local brand I’d never heard of. That was the best apple cider I’d ever tasted. The thing I noticed as she pulled away was the lasting bittersweet taste of cinnamon in my mouth. The kiss was over almost before it had began.

She laughed, flashing her white teeth, and just got up and left me there. I sat on the swinging bench and watched the final rays of sun dip behind the mountains in the distance as the sky turned purple, the taste of cinnamon dancing on my tongue, and still thinking about love.

Morning came, and I found myself once more on the couch in the front room, draped with a thin wool blanket. My neck hurt from the too-hard pillow, and I was cold and tired. This didn’t stop her from being in an especially cheery mood that morning, bustling around the kitchen, asking me if I wanted coffee. To that, I nodded, and I poured a little cream into my mug of steaming black liquid. There is nothing like a warm cup of coffee, except maybe sex.

We went on a walk that day, with her old dog named Ben. He was a yellow Labrador, almost fifteen years old. He was a little gray around the edges, his paws and whiskers and tip of his tail. He wiggled his ass around a lot and thumped his tail into my leg more than once, but he was a good dog overall. I liked him.

There was a stronger breeze that day than the ones before it, and I needed extra layers of sweatshirts, so much so that I looked like the Michelin mascot, but she just laughed at me. Of course, she had on only one very thin coat that seemed to keep her warm, and an attractive scarf like a Parisian might wear. Her chestnut-brown jacket and olive-green scarf blended in well with the fall colors and I swelled with happiness at her beauty.

We hiked over the huge hill near her property, hardly saying anything to each other. I guess there just wasn’t much to say. At one point, we spotted a deer on the trail just as it spotted us. It dashed away, flashing its white tail, and Ben bolted after it, barking like a maniac. We walked some more until Ben found us, and then we walked home.

For the rest of the afternoon, I was so tired that I sat in the chair and read. I got up a few times for snacks and to make a quick dinner and eat it, but other than that, I was stuck to the chair.

That night, something odd happened. I had almost fallen asleep in that chair after reading a Neil Gaiman novel. Not that the book wasn’t interesting, I was just so unbelievably tired. I was drifting off to that place of nightmares when she called to me from the stairs.

“Come to bed, darling.” Never had those words escaped her lips. My heart jumped, and I was as thrilled as a teenager in love once more. I remembered the days even only ten years ago, when things were so different. The doubts and worries I had experienced were only shadows of what possessed me then.

I stood from the chair, my legs wobbly under my body, and walked to her room. Up the stairs, turn left, down the hall, on the right. I could find her room in my sleep.

The white walls looked yellowish in the bedside lamp’s light, giving the whole room a sepia-tone, antique look. There she was, lying in bed, fully clothed in her red fuzzy pajamas, and reading some book I didn’t recognize. Without looking up, she dully said, “Close the door, will you?” and of course I did as she asked. I stood in the doorway in the dim light and watched her read for a long time. Finally, she looked up and set the book down.

“Did you want something?” she purred, cocking her head to one side.

You, I almost screamed, but restrained myself and shook my head no.

“Close the door when you leave then, love.” And that was that.

The next day, she left early in the morning while I was still sleeping on the couch. She took all her possessions from her room, and her dog, and even her smell had left the house. I wondered if it had all been some strange dream, and that this house was not really shared by her but owned solely by my friend.

Then I found a note on the kitchen counter.

Darling, I’m sorry, but I have to go earlier than I expected. I’ll see you soon, I’m certain of it. Until next time–

I crumpled up the note and threw it in the trash. I began to cry, shaking sobs that wracked my body. I hadn’t cried like that since middle school. Salty tears ran down my face and filled the room with an ocean that I drowned in. Or so I like to believe. Really I stood there for a long time, crying out my life and all the pain that comes with it, and then I got a grip and stopped.

I never saw her again. I think of her sometimes, when it’s dark, and I’m alone in my apartment. I dream of writing letters to her, and she will coming running back to me, saying how she missed me all those years. But of course, I don’t know her address, and I know she will never come back. I try to console myself, saying that she was only using me, but it never helps. I will always love her; I will always love that girl.