When she punched me, my nose exploded like a ripe watermelon being hit by a mallet. Her shoulders were so petite it always amazed me how much torque she could generate from them. Her footwork was excellent, though, having been a dancer for ten years. She was one of those people who seemed to float across the floor rather than walk.
I remember walking with her on a windy day and I was afraid that she might blow away. I thought about taking my belt off and tying her to me in case it started to happen, so she wouldn’t end up in Oz. She was so tiny I could never buy her a sweater that wasn’t from the children’s section of a store. If I bought it anywhere else it would be swimming on her.
You would think that someone that size couldn’t have so much rage in them. But most days she walked with clenched fists unless she was dancing, those supple shoulders holding up her beautiful face.
My favorite morning ritual: tracing with my fingers the back of her neck, that bone that protrudes at the nape, her shoulders barely sturdy enough to rest my chin.
I always thought if you told bad news quietly, in a whisper, it somehow wasn’t so bad. So with hot steamy breath, I blew into her ear the best explanation of how I knew the woman at the bar. The one with fiery red hair, the one wearing a floral sundress that was so tight there couldn’t have been anything between her and the fabric. I told red the story about how I saved Johnny Cash’s life once. I realized that my whisper theory was wrong when my nose got busted open like a piñata with blood raining down.
Just like staring at the sun, a man should never look at another woman too long.
Photo Source: Seringa