“In Conversation with a Beautiful Girl” by Abigail George

Writing about people
means I get to dissect
them. Pull them apart
at the seams. Live with
them for a short while,
love them, and then
leave them. There are
two kinds of girls in this
world. The Madonna
and the Mother Teresa of
Calcutta. The instant
was swept away just
as quickly as it had come
upon me. The road in the
distance was magnificent.
The heatwave in summer
electric just like she
was. She brought the
sea to me. Rain gathered
overhead and the heavens
opened her floodgates.

Her fingers tap out
another language on
the piano. Her swim
is like a fish. She told
me once of how she
had nearly drowned as
a girl in a hotel swimming
pool. Her mother brushed
her blonde hair as thick
as honey as I sat next
to her. She’s all mouth
and perfumed hair. Fragility.
Her mouth was filled
with French verbs. At
the beach her cousins were
hard on me. Her memory
is as faint as a drum roll
now. You don’t know me
anymore. I don’t know you.
You’ve become a stranger waiting
for her train at the station.


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