Clumsy sweet self

I have never been a fan of being told what I can and can’t do. The most obvious example of this is my desire to be a writer only manifesting itself shortly after being told I am so very dyslexic. My own body even revolts against me; I tell myself that I have to be up early, so my brain, in a fit of pointless defiance, decides not to shut itself down until a couple of hours before I should be getting up. Maybe it’s an unconscious self destruction trip, a background desire to check out guns-a-blazin’ rather than quietly shrivel into a nursing home.

With that in mind it’s not surprising that while my brain constantly points out the girls who it is smart to start liking, and, more importantly, the ones I really shouldn’t, the ones I stand least chance with, the ones who deserve better and the ones who are, ultimately, a bad idea.

And, of course, it’s those girls my heart decides a suicidal running leap at.

This one was subtle, desire creeping up into me like an accent, unnoticed at first, but soon so thick that people can’t understand a word your saying. She ticks all the boxes of the ideal girl checklist and a few hidden on a second page that wasn’t even aware of.

Encased in a giggling storm of curly dark brown hair, her eyes are blue with pupils ringed with hazel and framed lightly with freckles, which continue over her eyelids. A button sweet nose and a mouth that permanently turns up at the sides and disappear with a charcoal smudge. I could spend hours staring at her face, and by now probably have, switching from seeing with artists eyes to writers eyes to boyfriends eyes (all of which I have dabbled with in the past).

She makes me happy, not necessarily by the things she says or does, but just by being around, by being her clumsy sweet self.