I didn’t want to speak with her. I never wanted to hold hands with her, I never wanted to look her in the eye. I did not want her to see me, I just wanted to see her. As much as I could. I felt like I had an iron safe for a heart when I saw her. It was so strange. I had no real fondness or warmth for her, but was so deeply infatuated with her poise and beauty. I’m mortified to recall the details now. We all sat in comfortable silence beneath the fluorescent lights, the constant buzz of electricity filled the air with artificial calm. Our teacher was a veteran of the district and was able to have an especially comfortable classroom. The wooden tables we had were meant for elementary students and afforded me the perfect vantage point to look at her. I don’t know if she ever said anything to me. I know I never said anything to her. I was too ashamed. I had a secret sketchbook filled with nothing but her face. I drew her with an unnaturally long neck and curly hair. I don’t know why I changed those things, but I did. It was an aesthetic adventure taken in silence and right under her nose.
She was an honors student. I was an honors student. She was so smart even if she didn’t act like she thought so. She was much taller than any girl in our grade, and she looked much older. At the time I was still wearing clothes from the children’s department. She had a very chiseled face, not a lick of baby fat, and the highest cheekbones I’ve seen outside of a magazine. Her hair touched her shoulder blades, was pin straight and dirty blonde, obviously a bit sun- bleached. She was wispy and thin but still moved like she was strong enough to toss an ox. I was fixed.
I don’t like to speak of muses. The modern muse is someone primed for abuse and exploitation, but something about watching her live and breathe made me feel like a hunched old genius.
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