Today's entry comes to you as a bit of a mix between past and present. Several years ago, as I was riding the bus back from the shopping district, I spotted a young woman, R(H)C, someone I had dormed with in Freshman year, climb on the bus. As she made her way to the far back, she chose a seat right across from mine. She was wearing a royal violet, full-length peacoat, which I was rather jealous of/enamored with, but I otherwise didn't notice too much about her for the time being.
I averted eye contact for a few minutes, as I tend to do with most people with whom I'd lost contact from that old dormitory. It's always awkward, saying hello. Not to mention, I had recently had a run in with an acquaintance who I had spent 16 weeks in class and 2 weeks with abroad the semester prior, and he had already forgotten me entirely. I was pretty wary about assuming that people would remember me.
Eventually, I hesitated a little, feeling stupid about being so withdrawn. If she didn't remember me, well, what's the worst that would happen? She would simply make brief eye contact, and then look away. So, I chanced a glance at her.
I wish I could properly draw portraits so that I could do justice to her instead of these terrible wibbly-wobbly caricatures.
At first glance, she hadn't changed much since freshman year. She'd been a tiny little cherub back then, and even now, she had the same body type. Yet, there was something about her that seemed... womanly. As if she'd blossomed in the time I had lost touch with her. Perhaps it was her hair. She'd been growing it out since I first met her. That night, it sat in perfect ringlets. (She has since cut her hair, but she is no less glamorous. Maybe more so.) Her face was subtly made-up, though her lips had a bright impossible-to-miss red tint.
Her hands were in dainty little gloves. Even her shoes were so well suited. Black brogue shoes, and beneath those were lacy/webby black stockings
She was... a china doll. It's the first time, perhaps ever, that I found myself jealous of someone with a higher mass:height ratio than myself. But there you go. She was beautiful.
What would her future be like, I pondered then. She had recently been engaged to be married to a very... eccentric (if bright) fellow. They've since gotten married, and I know no more about them now then I did then, but I imagine they are doing well enough for themselves.
I sat there for probably 10 blocks, my eyes downcast, too embarrassed to raise my gaze and meet her. She had grown up. She was breath-taking in that moment. Not just her clothes. Not just her appearance. But her air. Her poise. And there I was, frayed jeans, pilled sweatshirt, headphones decorated with atomic labels, as if I hadn't aged a day past high school graduation. Dumpy. Trying to blend into the seat. Caged in my stupid awkwardness.
I still haven't quite figured out why I was so floored during that ride back home. Do I really just like Victorian clothing? I've since (semi)-gotten over the idea that maturity is all about appearance. But I never did quite get over the disparity of that evening. There was a glowing confidence that could not be matched, even if she had only been wearing a potato sack. Perhaps it was jarring for me to realize that, at 20-some-years, I still wasn't comfortable with the skin I was in.
There's not a good way to conclude this, because she is in no way done growing, and neither am I. But if I had to guess, she'll be shining bright for quite some time, and if I'm smart, I'll start remembering to twinkle occasionally, too.
Until the next.
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