5:23pm. 5:23pm is the time that she comes home from school everyday after finishing volleyball practice and occasionally extra help with calculus. If she has an away game it will be much later, but today, it’s 5:23pm.
She gets out of her car, hauling her backpack and practice bag with her. By studying the expression on her face, it appears as though it was a rough practice or day at school. Maybe both.
As she walks up the remainder of the driveway I can’t help but stare in awe at her incredible beauty. Her dark brunette locks flow down her back like a chocolate waterfall.
Sunlight illuminates her alabaster skin, sheen with perspiration. Her rose-colored lips are slightly frowned yet retain their allure. Her bitter appearance is overpowered by these features but prevails nonetheless. I wish I knew what her eye color was. Unfortunately that is a desire that will remain unfulfilled.
My hand shakes as I put the curtain back in place, concealing the mesmerizing scene. I notice how fast my heart is beating, like it will burst out of my chest at any second. I will never know what her eye color is. My stupid fear of the unknown, the unfamiliar, the unusual, will always get in the way. My bedroom is my safety, with this window being my only portal into the outside world.
My thoughts are interrupted by a heated exchange of words coming from outside my window. I pull back the curtain once again, the fabric slightly damp with sweat. There she is, facing her mother on the front steps of her house; I thought she had made it inside, but I was mistaken.
Her mother suddenly slams the door shut, concluding whatever argument had taken place. She stands there, stunned, backpack and practice bag still on her shoulders. She slowly turns around and takes a seat on the top step of the front stairs, her bags falling next to her on either side. She puts her face in her hands, covering all the ingredients that constitute her beauty.
After staying in this position for a few moments, her face reappears tear stained. She wipes her face but her puffy eyes remain as evidence of her distress.
I didn’t catch any of the words spoken in the quarrel, but I don’t think I would’ve liked to.
I’ve occasionally caught wind of the happenings of the house, but nothing as intense as this.
Whatever it is has crushed her, and my racing heart aches.
I return to the scene in front of me and realize something different. She’s looking at me.
Like looking straight into my window. My first reaction is to close the curtain, to shut out the world and its willingness to make me uncomfortable. However, something stops me. She’s waving. Oh my god, she’s waving to me.
Before I know it, my hand slowly begins to uncurl from a fist, the pain from my fingernails digging into my skin retreating. I can’t explain why my arm rises up, my palm moving side to side with my fingers in a waving movement. Oh my god, I’m waving back.
She smiles, her rose-colored lips revealing friendly pearls of white. It’s a broken smile, as her eyes still hold onto sadness, but I know it’s the best she can convey at the moment. Her eyes!
Her eyes are blue. My new favorite color.