Angela
How can I describe Daisy? I’ll bring you back to the first time I met her.
It was late afternoon. The warm, yellow, sun was streaming in through the windows. I noticed that; I adore the small details that breathe life into any idea. Like the way her blonde hair shined in the sun or the way her nails were always trimmed and painted bubblegum pink.
I was in the middle of a piano piece, letting my fingers rest for a moment. That was when Daisy walked in; she had been in the other room, recording or working on a song or something, probably high, asking where she could refill her strawberry smoothie. She was wearing a light pink halter top with a navy ripped denim skirt with open-toed sandals and wild, untamed red hair.
When I told her that there were no strawberry smoothies in the building she just looked confused, looked at her drink again, then left the room without a word.
At first, it was her frankness that unnerved me; Daisy wasn’t an open book, but a see-through one. She wasn’t naive or overly honest, but didn’t make an effort to hide anything either.
She just was. She existed in exactly the space she wanted to, if that makes sense.
Since that day, our paths would often cross. Sometimes I would meet her at the bar I worked at, watching her swirl her shot of tequila on the wooden counter with a weight in her eyes until I picked up a conversation with her. Sometimes I would see her at the building, ask her about the song she was working on.
It was like that - a a myriad of fleeting, touch and go moments. I knew her but didn’t. She knew me but didn’t.
It was just like that night at that party; I touched her but didn’t, she touched me but didn’t. My hands were tangled in her hair and my lips were pressed on hers, but for all she cared, could have been on any other pretty blonde model in that room.
It was like that. Something indescribable and heavy and real, but also not. I also may have been overthinking this.
It was one night. The next morning, I woke up to a note claiming she had urgent affairs to attend to in Barcelona. She was gone for two months and then never bothered to send a text, leave another note, or even spare a hello.
And there it was again - that stupid, unnerving, frankness. She obviously wasn’t afraid to show that I meant nothing to her. To her, I was as important as the eraser shavings left from a sheet of lyrics written in pencil. On and off she went, onto more important things and more important people.
Anyway, that didn’t matter anymore. I, too, was focused on my more important things - like my imminent move to Italy.
So, to explain why I was at her door a year later, I was actually just cleaning out my apartment and stumbled on her leather jacket. Of course, I would have simply thrown it away, but it looked expensive and I didn’t want to be wasteful.
I knocked on her door purely under the pretense of being a good Samaritan. It was nothing more, truly. Actually. Sure, maybe I wanted to see her face. Sure, maybe I wanted just another glimpse of her. But really, trust me - it was to return her jacket.
So, when the day came, I simply took a deep breath, fixed my hair, adjusted my lipstick, and knocked on her door.
And, to my both relief and dismay, she answered.