“supersonic woman of you” (revisited, circa 8/2010)
It is a Saturday afternoon and the sun is bright which is good because the majority of the day would be spent outside with people and friends and everything else that makes one day stand out from the others. I know a girl, a particular girl, and she is cute and close to me, this girl, and she is special and unique. I watch her this morning, secretly because I am reading a book and sitting on the bed and she thinks I’m reading this book, a collection of short stories about love and loss and adults learning to swim on the linoleum floor of some woman’s kitchen, but moreso I am spying, in plain sight, on her as she moves from room to room with eager feet, getting ready for the day, for the pirate party. I was wearing an eye patch, standard procedure, though not on my eye as normally intended, but above my eye on the brow because, for one I had been “reading” and, for two, because the ability for one to see clearly and, say, judge the distance between steps on a set of stairs or spy on someone, is greatly inhibited when one or both eyes are covered. So on my forehead the eye patch sat, signifying my readiness to celebrate without putting me in any immediate danger, though, and I cannot think of another reason for what had followed, but it must have given my face a scrunched appearance because I certainly wasn’t in a bad mood but this girl, this darling, who thought I wasn’t watching, moved to the record player on the far wall and, for no other reason that I can imagine but to remedy my apparent “bad mood” set the needle down on a freshly removed album and through the speakers came the resounding and consuming voice of Freddy Mercury and, in this instant, I look up at this girl, this gorgeous face whom I had told hours earlier that this band never failed to put me in a good mood. This glowing beauty of a human who can put a smile on my face at the flick of a switch, or in this case, drop of a needle because I melt for the little things. The shake me to rubble. To me such things are irreplaceable, rarely found, and impossible to forget. The value they hold, more often than not, can never be described in the way it deserves to be. I look over at her, wide-eyed and grinning like a fool and I tell her, you’re awesome, you know? And she smiles and winks and if I had collected the pieces of myself they would have gone again as quickly as they came.
…I wish I still had that…
