Visit Number Twenty
What do I think about Ellawyn?
What do I think about Ellawyn? I think she’s addicting like sleep, or coke, or anything good and fun in the world. Addicting like those really good things. Her voice is intoxicating, velvety, like the perfect song. She sings and Janis Joplin stops in her tracks or even midshit. She whistles and birds fall out of trees at her feet, in the middle of their tune, just to be closer to her. She sneezes and my mom’s almighty god himself comes down to bless her with tears in the crinkling corners of his fake eyes. She exhales and the soft noise that she emits causes the trees to lean in closer. She flutters her eye lashes during a yawn and men stare, women fan themselves.
I think Ellawyn is the depiction of beauty. Webster needs to reissue the dictionary just to use her picture to define the word. Every time I see her my head falls apart and my chest tightens like some fucking school boy. It’s dumb but it just happens. I’m not a sap either, I mean it. I have a sinking feeling she has this effect on many males and it kills me knowing I’m not alone in this. Its not her fault, she glows. She’s the only star in this city, untarnished by the shitty weather or bad attitudes. The light pollution has little to no effect on her brilliance.
She’s not a bad person. There isn’t an ounce of shittyness in her body and that kills me too because I know I do, I know I can be. She on the other hand, simply doesn’t know how to be. I don’t know if she could even learn to be. She goes to soup kitchens to donate her free time. She makes me breakfast on the house every slow morning she has. If I’m going to be late for work she bangs on the ceiling of the Toaster with a broom stick to wake me. On exceptionally good days she’ll come upstairs, let herself in, and put a record on. I get coffee in a thermos every morning, if she doesn’t prepare it for me Laurel will. She supports my music, my stupid fucking unrealistic dreams, and scores me pot when I need the help.
I think Ellawyn may be perfect.
I steal as many glances of her as I can so at night my memory can recall her exceptionally well and I can be with her the way I want to be. I want to burn her name into my arm with lye so I can take her everywhere with me. She makes me want to settle down young and work harder. She makes me want to be more than what I am. She makes me want to succeed at something. She makes me want to exist in a world that isn’t easy to look forward to hanging around for x-amount of years in.
She makes me happy. Truly happy. Not that fake, depreciating, fleeting, honeymoon happy. She makes me want to sing more, play more, create more. She makes me want to play a billion bars every night without a moments rest. She makes me want to fight ignorant assholes in the front row with smiles and large words instead of my stupid fists. She makes my anger melt, my sadness deplete and my tiny heart swell to maximum capacity the way kittens or puppies would effect a child.
What I think of Ellawyn is that she’s good for me.
After reading the stupid journal entry thoroughly, Edith raises her eyes from the paper and tries like hell to keep her composure. She wants to smile, she wants to shake me, she wants to reach across the length of the coffee table and hug me or hit me. I smile awkwardly, my lips pulling in a fake, weird way- probably showing too much teeth. My eyebrows raise.
She isn’t speaking, just staring at me, itching for a chance to slyly grab at her notebook more than likely.
“That was beautiful. Why is it in French?”
“Oh man, spare me Eeds.”
“I mean it, Marcelo. This is very nice. I’m glad you ended up writing.”
I roll my eyes and rub my fuzzed scalp, nod once and emit awkward sounds similar to farts with my mouth. She sighs and crosses her arms loosely over her chest, thinking deeply. Picking and choosing her words carefully as to not drive me further away. I adjust my eyesight to the ceiling and start connecting the tiny pinpricked dots in the tiles.
“I don’t want to pry too much as this doesn’t seem to be a subject you want to actually speak aloud about-”
“It’s not that, I just don’t need all of that sappy garbage man.”
“If you aren’t sappy, why is it in French? The most romantic language.”
“Oh, Eeds,” I groan.
Of course my clever plan is seen as anything other than a clever plan.
“It’s in French because my mother doesn’t know how to read or speak the language. Expect any others of any subject to be written this way as well.”
Forever underestimating me.