I first saw her at the mall on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. Shopping was a massacre of consumer against consumer, battling for the last cheap, wash-it-once-wear-it-twice-watch-it-fall-apart apparel from the cheapest trendy store in the place: Bishaki! Inc., the bane of my loathsome existence. I shopped there, mainly because I have to. It’s where my friends shop, and I want to wear what they wear, right?

I was browsing through a rack of hoodies, with a few of my friends scattered around the rest of the packed store, when I saw her. The first thing I noticed was her hair, piled up in a giant bun, visible from the clothing racks like a tidal wave. She was so petite, though, it looked like a planet orbiting her head.

I saw her pale arms shoot up to browse through the rack adjacent to mine, and I had to admit I wasn’t mesmerized by her very presence, like I would be later on. No, the only reason why I was staring at her was because of her left arm. In fact, I wasn’t staring at her at all, just the messy purple writing scrawled on the inside of her forearm.

She noticed almost instantly, drawing the appendage back self-consciously. I smiled at her as a sign of surrender. She piqued her eyebrows at me.

“I was just trying to read your arm,” I laughed and pointed to the writing.

She laughed too, all of a sudden, as if remembering the inscription.

“What does it say?” I pushed aside, closer to her, as an obese woman moved past me. It was very loud in Bishaki! Inc., and I wasn’t sure if the girl had just spoken or not.

“That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die,” she recited, looking straightforward. Her voice was terrific, like she was into theatre and was used to projecting across stages.

“E.A. Poe?” I asked.

“H.P. Lovecraft,” she smiled apologetically, “But thanks for playing.”

I laughed. “Drats. Don’t I get the door prize?” I admit I was flirting, but it really wasn’t like me to be that forward.

She didn’t hesitate—she opened her trendy, mosaic-fabric purse and shuffled around in it until she found an ink pen. She grabbed my hand and, facing it away from me, wrote something longer than seven digits. “There,” she said, and rounded the rack we were pinned to (so many, many bodies occupied that store) and restarted her browsing. I noticed she had a bright blue shirt on a hangar in her possession—a claim in the wild beast of Bishaki! Inc.

My palm read “All that we see or seem, is but a draem within a draem.” An Edgar Allan quote with misspellings. I laughed.

“You’re a quote fanatic? Got a bunch of them stored up in your noggin?” I asked, using my charm by rudely side-swiping her.

“Photographic memory,” she tapped her head twice with her index finger.

“Impressive. Is that death quote your favorite, or are you more of a draem girl?”

She looked at me strangely, not getting my humor with the ‘draem’ gag, then rolled her eyes dramatically. “I don’t have a favorite.”

“So you just have it on your arm because?”

She bit her lip and smiled, slowly. “Everyday it’s a new quote, actually. I write something new on my arm every morning.”

I smiled back.

“Sometimes it’s literary quotes—but sometimes not. Why, the other day my friend Felicity wrote ‘I love cheese’ on my arm, and I kept it on all day.”

I lifted my own sweatshirt sleeve, to where I had a phone number—written on my wrist two nights ago—in faded blue ink. The girl laughed.

“My name’s Rowan,” I said, “But you can call me Rowan. I also answer to Rowan, and am occasionally called Rowan by my family and close friends as an old, intimate nickname.”

“Rowan,” she said, giving me this look as if to say you’re half crazy but I like you.

“Mystery girl,” I said.

“Mystery girl?”

“Well, I could call you a Lovecraft Groupie, but I doubt you’d like that.”

She nodded. “Or you could call me Sivi.”

“Or I could call you that.” The crowded store was making me way too claustrophobic, and these random people kept bumping into us and shoving us away during the entire conversation. I really couldn’t stand it anymore, so I said, “Could I have your number then, Sivi?”

“Five,” she smiled.

I furrowed my brow. “So you’re saying that if I picked up a phone and dialed the number five, you’d pick up.”

She nodded furiously. “Yeah, just add eight, four, three, three, four, and six after it.”

I laughed at her ploy. “Wouldn’t be able to repeat that, would you?”

Sivi looked at me, and I saw something in her eyes that danced and jumped and sang to me. It was very poetic, but slightly terrifying.

“No problem, Rowan,” she said, and smiled at me.

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Author: Yay, this is my first romance story! Except not! I don't know where the hell it's going to go. I'm not even sure if it was worth your trouble to click on. But no worries, I'm over feeling self-conscious on fictionpress. GO ME. And thank you for your time.