Purple
Another oddly literary entry. No promises as to quality. Read at your own risk.
Purple's waiting for the same bus as me. I haven't seen her since the first day, walking into the library with black and white pants and her namesake hair. She looked really cool, from a distance; I almost talked to her, and that was back when approaching girls was still a test of nerve and will. In fact, disappointment at letting her slip out of view was one of the things that inspired me to get over myself when I saw Angela, a few minutes later.
She lights a cigarette. Dammit, another bubble burst. I talk to her a little, learn and forget her name. Nothing major. Her cigarette pack is brightly coloured and patterned. Trendy.
She steps onto the bus in front of me, and I see the back of her neck; four small metal studs stick out of her skin, the flesh slightly raised around them. Who the hell gets the back of their neck pierced?
I sit at the back of the bus, she sits immediately before me.; I make no attempt at conversation; she strikes one up with the guy across from her, who's also into piercing (though he doesn't look it). I spend the next ten minutes hearing bits and snatches of their conversation, mildly more interesting than my iPod.
"Yeah, I used to work at-"
"My boss didn't really like the hair-"
"I've got them all over my body, it's like a fucking work of art"
"Nostrils, four in my ears, four in the back of my neck, two in each nipple, two in my bellybutton-"
"She worked there but she couldn't handle the blood-"
"I'm all for body modification, but that's a little-"
"I mean, it's awesome to watch, so long as I'm not the one-"
It's amazing how fast attraction can turn to revulsion. As I drift in and out of the dialogue, I learn of one of the few worlds I'm grateful not to be a part of; as far as I can tell, they're talking about something called art scarring, for those who find random self-mutilation too conservative. Against my better judgement I listen more; the guy is telling a story now.
"A friend of mine showed up, but she wasn't eighteen yet, and anyway, they had this game where what you do is, you put a needle up against a wall and you push it through your hand-"
"That's a GAME?!" Purple asks. It seems even she's genuinely shocked.
"Yeah, but she wasn't eighteen, so-" The bus goes through a busy intersection, and I lose the rest of the story to traffic.
"I wouldn't do that, I use my hands too much for what I do, I'd be worried about ending up, like-"
This girl needs a reason not to drive needles through her own hand. I drift out of the conversation again, until another sentence of hers gets my attention
"Yeah, my lover came in there a lot too." I can tell the person in question is female- I don't know how. Something about her choice of the word- "lover"- or the way she said it, like she's looking for a fight. She couldn't just say boyfriend or girlfriend- she wanted people to challenge her on it, so she can show how assertive she is in her refusal of traditional roles. I don't know how I know so much from one little word, but I was right.
"My lover". Lover. She doesn't know how to use the word. It's loaded, powerful, provocative- to use it is to declare the existence of your sexuality before the world. She trips over it like a child using a curse word in front of his parents. She wants to sound defiant, mature, sensual; she isn't.
"Does he work there?" the guy asks. I can almost feel her joy at his use of the pronoun.
"She's female." she says. Hoping he pursues it. He does.
"Oh, are you a lesbian?" I wonder if he knows how much he's encouraging her.
"I'm not affiliated with any orientation. I am me, myself and I."
The bus arrives at Eugene Station shortly thereafter. I get off as quickly as I can, fleeing in a rapid walk this world where metal wires tear and slip through human flesh, diving back and forth through skin, stabbing through muscle. I don't like the thought of humans as sacks of tearable meat. I think I'll stop dying my hair.
"I'm not affiliated with any orientation. I am me, myself and I." So clearly a rehearsed sentence. I wonder if she knows what the individual words mean, or if she learned it as a whole phrase, to be parroted at every opportunity.
I'm not a bigot. I know gay people, and I'm friends with a lot of them. They basically get on with their lives and their loves, comfortable with each. When challenged, they defend themselves. They wear their sexuality like skin, not wave it around like a matador with his cape.
I wonder, though, if I'm a snob.
Purple's waiting for the same bus as me. I haven't seen her since the first day, walking into the library with black and white pants and her namesake hair. She looked really cool, from a distance; I almost talked to her, and that was back when approaching girls was still a test of nerve and will. In fact, disappointment at letting her slip out of view was one of the things that inspired me to get over myself when I saw Angela, a few minutes later.
She lights a cigarette. Dammit, another bubble burst. I talk to her a little, learn and forget her name. Nothing major. Her cigarette pack is brightly coloured and patterned. Trendy.
She steps onto the bus in front of me, and I see the back of her neck; four small metal studs stick out of her skin, the flesh slightly raised around them. Who the hell gets the back of their neck pierced?
I sit at the back of the bus, she sits immediately before me.; I make no attempt at conversation; she strikes one up with the guy across from her, who's also into piercing (though he doesn't look it). I spend the next ten minutes hearing bits and snatches of their conversation, mildly more interesting than my iPod.
"Yeah, I used to work at-"
"My boss didn't really like the hair-"
"I've got them all over my body, it's like a fucking work of art"
"Nostrils, four in my ears, four in the back of my neck, two in each nipple, two in my bellybutton-"
"She worked there but she couldn't handle the blood-"
"I'm all for body modification, but that's a little-"
"I mean, it's awesome to watch, so long as I'm not the one-"
It's amazing how fast attraction can turn to revulsion. As I drift in and out of the dialogue, I learn of one of the few worlds I'm grateful not to be a part of; as far as I can tell, they're talking about something called art scarring, for those who find random self-mutilation too conservative. Against my better judgement I listen more; the guy is telling a story now.
"A friend of mine showed up, but she wasn't eighteen yet, and anyway, they had this game where what you do is, you put a needle up against a wall and you push it through your hand-"
"That's a GAME?!" Purple asks. It seems even she's genuinely shocked.
"Yeah, but she wasn't eighteen, so-" The bus goes through a busy intersection, and I lose the rest of the story to traffic.
"I wouldn't do that, I use my hands too much for what I do, I'd be worried about ending up, like-"
This girl needs a reason not to drive needles through her own hand. I drift out of the conversation again, until another sentence of hers gets my attention
"Yeah, my lover came in there a lot too." I can tell the person in question is female- I don't know how. Something about her choice of the word- "lover"- or the way she said it, like she's looking for a fight. She couldn't just say boyfriend or girlfriend- she wanted people to challenge her on it, so she can show how assertive she is in her refusal of traditional roles. I don't know how I know so much from one little word, but I was right.
"My lover". Lover. She doesn't know how to use the word. It's loaded, powerful, provocative- to use it is to declare the existence of your sexuality before the world. She trips over it like a child using a curse word in front of his parents. She wants to sound defiant, mature, sensual; she isn't.
"Does he work there?" the guy asks. I can almost feel her joy at his use of the pronoun.
"She's female." she says. Hoping he pursues it. He does.
"Oh, are you a lesbian?" I wonder if he knows how much he's encouraging her.
"I'm not affiliated with any orientation. I am me, myself and I."
The bus arrives at Eugene Station shortly thereafter. I get off as quickly as I can, fleeing in a rapid walk this world where metal wires tear and slip through human flesh, diving back and forth through skin, stabbing through muscle. I don't like the thought of humans as sacks of tearable meat. I think I'll stop dying my hair.
"I'm not affiliated with any orientation. I am me, myself and I." So clearly a rehearsed sentence. I wonder if she knows what the individual words mean, or if she learned it as a whole phrase, to be parroted at every opportunity.
I'm not a bigot. I know gay people, and I'm friends with a lot of them. They basically get on with their lives and their loves, comfortable with each. When challenged, they defend themselves. They wear their sexuality like skin, not wave it around like a matador with his cape.
I wonder, though, if I'm a snob.