9-2

He sits close and touches my shoulder periodically. It feels intimate—my shoulder is bare, I am trying a new look, a new dress that shows glimpses of more skin than I am comfortable showing. A new look to match my new hair, which makes me feel fresh and strong and makes me smile because people turn their heads to look at me.

This girl with the phoenix hair is flashy. She likes to be looked at and relaxes her hips when she walks so her dress swings side to side. People stop her and they say they like her dress and her hair, and they tell her she is beautiful, and she thanks them nicely; inside she is blooming with the reminder.

I had forgotten that I like the looks.

This flashy girl isn’t sure about hands on the shoulder, cool quick touches on her warm skin, but she is trying new things, and she doesn’t pull away.

She argues intelligently and teases. She jokes, and she drinks good beer in a tall sweating glass and then she drinks wine and then she shares his straw—her version of a touch on the shoulder.

She knows the meaning of the Latin words, and he shakes his head in surprise and appreciation and looks at the person beside him as if bringing him in on a secret.

“This girl.”

This girl has forgotten what it’s like to be admired, to glow. She has forgotten to appreciate her own sharp mind and strangeness and words, which flow free and gently when they are appreciated. This Girl is happy that when she speaks people listen.

No one is censoring her with looks and tense shoulders and sharp words, and she burns soft light, fireflies inside. The volcano has cooled and settled back to sleep.

I did what I could, and I learned lessons, and then I became This Girl. A patchwork of my best pieces. I clipped away the jealousy and hate and anger and threw them aside.

They don't match my new dresses. They don't go with my bright hair.