I first formally met Marie our senior year of high school in the eternal snake of a line holding ravenous high-schoolers. I'd naively failed to bring
my own lunch that day, and was consequently under a lot of stress due the carnivorous birds swatting at my exposed neck. I imagined them attacking at
any time - I made to cover myself by pulling up the collar of my blouse. I never went down to the cafeteria, and instead spent my free time away from
classes pounding on a tinny piano. My mind moved towards self-preservation as I noticed some sputtering, severe freshmen turn to face me, only to
look away just as quickly. I hitched up the collar on my blouse higher. I felt a harsh tap on my back; my breathe caught in my throat, and my heart
jumped out of my chest. I felt a growl inside me as I turned around on my heel, a large cat ready to pounce.
"Hi! I thought I'd never find you again!" She was beaming at me. Her eyes were earnest, intense, and brandy colored. This gave the impression
that between her thick black eyelashes lived something handsome, dark, and newborn.
It must've taken me awhile to register my shock at her actually being there; nobody had approached me in that line in living memory. My fervent
desire to attack, however, burned out rapidly, and we dived into a great deal of talk about the movies we were going to watch, and the books that we
wanted to share with each other.
She asked me if I had ever seen any French movies, to which I responded yes, but mainly old ones, like Godard and Trauffaut. She blanched, her
eyes widening like a fawns might upon seeing its mother, returning with provisions. A feeling of mirth burst inside of me like the bubbles exploding
when opening a carbonated drink. Her eyes grew narrow and her uncanny smile began to closely resemble an apple sliced right in half.
"You know I've never met someone before who could appreciate Bach and Quentin Tarantino simultaneously. It seems like a silly thing really, but
I've never heard of such a person." I inwardly glowed. I thought she was really remarkable, as her attention focused on a group of stylish people passing
us. She gave them a jovial recognition which was returned. I felt more diffident than ever at this, but she quickly turned her infinite eyes back onto me,
and the group trotted away. We quickly exchanged numbers and emails, breaking eye contact only to scrounge away like purposeful little squirrels for a
pencil and paper. After she left, I felt steady. Steady and at peace with the faceless pubescent girls around me. I looked into their faces and believed
they were all right. It felt like I was immersing myself in a tepid pool on a sticky summer's night. The sweat that had once been plastered to me had been
relieved.
Over the the next few months before graduation, I'd finally got a hold of her. We went to the same pool I'd called to mind when first meeting her.
It was night, and the barking of tired dogs echoed in the distance. The rigid concrete the labor men had poured in my yard forced my back upright. I
suddenly felt an irrepressible urgency to not leave, and to spend as much time as was humanly possible with her. I resisted the desire to relieve
myself and lay down. She chatted her way through my silent spots, and as my mind digressed all I could hear after awhile was the soft pattering of our
feet on the water's surface and the recurring inflections in her voice, like some very enthusiastic music box. The connectedness I felt towards her
thoughts and her words was as tangible to me as the cigarette smoke billowing over my head. Shrouded in mystery, easy to touch as a feeling or a
thought, and riddled with righteousness.
I've become accustomed to this aspect of her now, but I was thrown off by her inquisitiveness and constant chattering. I laughed, wishing I could
tell her how I had felt in the lunch line. Her dark curls had become tangled in her face like creepers up a wall. A few days would pass, and I would come
to admire her sociability and seemingly sanguine outlook on things. This characteristic is still true of her, regardless of the strain of living away from
family, and the inevitable oppressiveness life usually delivers. As I sat rigid on the ground, legs dangling in the pool, I watched as she lit up another
cigarette.
The flame seemed to only obscure her more, and I looked on as the shadows flicked across her face. She got out her lucky dime, branded 1988,
and began throwing it up in her hand. I was anxious she might drop it into the pool, and I didn't much feel like diving into something wet and
unwelcoming to look for a thing five millimeters wide.
"I could never drop this dime, it's extremely lucky," she'd said, with an unnecessary emphasis on the first three words. I rolled my eyes. Her fleshy,
salmon lips split into an anticipating grin. "You'll see!"
Everyday after that I referenced the lucky dime to myself in my head. I'd narrowly miss a speeding SUV at a cross walk, or I'd find myself home
three hours after curfew, and my insomniac mom sleeping steadily. I'm not a superstitious person by any means, but the dime's presence followed every
step I took over the next couple of months. Her words rang in my head like a familiar ebbing tide you hear when you sit in silence too long.
"It represents being one with the cosmos."
