Tuesday, 3 August 2010

Saving these last words for one last miracle

She could pull a hundred expressions in a single minute’s worth of talking, her many faces were interesting to watch, almost always the best part of the conversation. It was strange though; no matter how expressive her face was, her eyes were always nonchalant. It was like her eyebrows and cheeks and lips were extravagant clothing on a bleak girl: dressing her up, but not changing anything beneath the surface.
It was a while before he realised that she wasn’t talking any longer, and her eyebrow was arched over her tree-bark eyes which were so beautifully lined with lashes that fell like leaves in an autumn wind. Oh, he was staring again.
“You weren’t listening to me.” Disappointment laced her sighs.
“I was!” he protested, but her pursed lips and raised eyebrow only meant one thing: she wasn’t convinced.
“You never listen to me,” it was her same complaint all over again, and it rolled off her tongue with the roll of her eyes. He put his hand onto her shoulder, attempting to relax her before she got even more irritated. She always wanted everyone’s full attention when she spoke to them; she always wanted to be heard. She constantly built up her frustrations, and one little thing could set her off for hours. It was best to pick her back up before she fell deeper.
She shrugged his arm off her shoulder and turned around with a flip of her hair, head held high, and started walking away with direction in her march. She always liked feeling as if she was more in control than he was, but he was more familiar to this situation than anyone, and he knew how to handle it.
“You never consider what I’m saying; you just instantly jump to what you have to say,”
He felt his nerves twitch in irritation; couldn’t she see how much effort he put into every little thing he did? The words were already climbing up his throat and out of his mouth,
“Don’t be difficult,” it slipped out before he could stop himself. Her eyes widened in disbelief and annoyance, warning him that he shouldn’t have said that.
"Fuck off," she hissed. The words escaping like December sleet; cold and sharp. He kept on walking after her and occasionally reached out to hold her, he knew that giving up would only infuriate her further. She was never afraid to say mean things or throw harsh comments; she wanted to see how long he’d hold onto her joyride, how much of his ego he’d give up to win her over. And the funny part was, no matter what nasty things she’d throw at him, he’d always be the one at fault. In her mind, the things she’d say would be justified by her anger, and once she calmed down, he wouldn’t hold anything against her, because all that mattered to him was that smile on her face.
When it comes to girls like her, things are complex. You can never seem to stay mad, or give up, or worst of all: forget.

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