Soft, platinum-blonde pony-tail swings from side to side. She walks like a ballerina. The ball of her foot first then her heel. Her name is Joni. We met at the mall candy store. I was digging in the Carmel Apple Jelly Bellys, she was reaching for the Pina Colada ones.
Behind us, a child holds his Power Ranger to the sky. He shouts "Mighty morphin time" at the top of his lungs. Hands sticky with the residue of licorice and jaw breakers, he makes fighting noises and karate moves. I look at the innocence and wish for a time long ago, a time when I was his age. Six Million Dollar Man, Star Wars, and GIJOE; heart and mind at play. I'm glad I don't have to shake the young man's hand.
I accept being an adult and all the privileges there of and all the pains as well. I look at Joni floating though the green chlorinated water of the apartments pool and wonder where we'll be in six months. I wonder what it would've been like to have known her as a little girl when I was a little boy. What would I think of her then? Now we're grown-ups. She walks over to the patio table. Pleated mini skirt, soft white swimsuit, velvet scrunchy, and sandals like those worn by ancient Greek Amazons. Her hair is wet and bound in a pony-tail. Her hand warm in mine, her nipples poking through the delicate cotton, her moist lips against my cheek, she whispers in my ear. It was the night my parents were out of town. We're alone; eighteen; senior year; prom; going off to college. We spend the night just sitting in the floor and watching TV. The flickering television plays reruns of I Dream of Jeanie; Brady Bunch; Partridge Family; Saturday Morning Cartoons. The house smells of Pop Tarts and coffee; Joni's favorites. She sits in front of the TV watching the Smurfs with a coloring book the size of the telephone directory. A sixty-four count box of Crayons is at her reach. Each and every color of the spectrum awaits to be used. I loved her quirks and I thought we would be together forever. She loves to color. I love to watch her. With the Prussian Blue in hand, she sits Indian style on the tan carpet, scribbling color on the page never wandering outside the lines. She asks to stay the weekend.
She takes a shower, I sit and listen to Depeche Mode's Somebody. I hear the jingling of shower curtain rings; shower stops. She exits and stands only in a large fluffy towel tied tight at her breasts. Water beads on her shoulders. She asks if I have something she can wear. I say she can help herself to what ever is in my closet. When she comes out, she's wearing a pair of my flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. I sit with her and massage her bare feet, until she falls asleep. I whisper to her unconscious ears, "Let's get married." She ignores me and rolls over.
draft: 6.22.97
Denver Comic Con
