A Letter

By createLP

It was the way she said it. The way she said, “dog.” When she spoke about her dog, you knew it was a dog. It wasn’t a spoiled princess, it wasn’t the family token, it was just a dog. She said it was a mix between a Chihuahua and, “one of those wiener dogs.” I think I envied her voice. It was instantly familiar, yet so manufactured, like she had watched just one too many Disney Channel shows.

I tried not to pay any attention to her. I didn’t find her attractive, she was just a girl. Just like the dog was just a dog, she was just a girl. Of course, it was impossible. My eyes drifted to that part of the room and lingered on the space above her head before falling straight onto her face. I like to tell myself that she was too involved in her conversation; that she didn’t see my shifting eyes. I’m a liar. She’d stop in the middle of her stories and her gaze would falter a little and I knew. I knew she could tell, tell somebody was paying too much attention to her innocuous story about the her friend that tripped over the dog.

Earlier in the day, an older blonde woman sat in front of me. If I had met the small Hispanic girl who had a Chihuahua first, I would have said the older blonde woman was just a woman. I hadn’t so I didn’t. She was an enigma to me. Her hair spilled onto her shoulders and I could almost feel it. Pampered, yet mistreated. She understands looks but her life does not. I know not what she does for a living, but she was geared to move. She was a woman, a workingwoman at that.

Driving home, I put on the classical station. Almost all music elicits emotion from me, but not classical. For some reason, its composition is mechanical to me. Foreign, otherworldy. A taste I must approach with trepidation. I was still. The music calmed me more than a silent car would. I noticed shadows playing across my hand and the burning giant piercing through my window. What is this? Where have I gone?


A Letter

Created: Jan 14, 2010


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