She hated brown eyes, but that didn’t matter because his were green.
They met on a chilly night in October in a small college town in Virginia.
He ripped the sleeve of his t-shirt on a greasy bicycle chain. She laughed at his clumsy demeanor. He smiled back, trying not to look too stupid.
It was awkward. Probably too awkward to watch. But neither cared. The awkward air made it all the more interesting.
3 a.m. conversations were triggered by the burning taste of imported rum chased with fruit juice of varying colors and flavors. He told her his secrets. She showed him a picture of a man who had his head blown off by a shotgun.
It was bizarre, yet charming. Not even they could explain it.
Then came February. The awkwardness had dissipated to a degree due to twenty-two late night conversations and a Queen of Hearts playing card. But it was still limited to graphic pictures of murder victims and secrets whispered across a dimly lit room in the wee hours of the morning.
It needed to be more. They both knew it. He made the move to make it more.
The night was special. It was their first.
There was BBQ with a side of slow, awkward chewing and talking. There were wrong directions and hobos beating each other with 2×4s in front of a laundromat. There was irony and opportunity and Taco Bell because she wanted it.
There were no red roses. No stiff collars or shiny shoes. No lies about owning a sailboat or having slept with Grace Kelly.
It was honest. It was bizarre. And it was perfect, of course.
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Jenelle
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Jillian
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