Nida

[ARCHIVE: I freewrote this after spending the day at Six Flags Great America with some 1st and 2nd degree friends. Nida, of course, is a not-so cleverly constructed pseudonym. I like the wording here, even if there's no real ending.]

Nida dressed like everyone else and yet managed to own the style for herself. Like she was the original post-modern girl from which all post-modern girls had learned from. She didn't tease with endless creamy legs or flawless shoulders. She had none of these Playboy properties, these sensual chattels, and it did not matter. Her stride was purposeful and confident, comfortable in its own length. Sooner would you see cats obedient than see Nida strut and preen herself with the awkward flaunt of a peacock. She carried herself with the dignity of a woman, the innocence of a child.

Her clothes neither revealed nor defined the round curves of her breasts, the smooth shapes of her body. The fabrics were ordinary and familiar, fabrics that spoke of utility and contentment. She wore a purple bandana, which swept back her long wonderful hair. Every so often she would tug it down, to adjust the stray hairs, and her bangs would fall, obscuring and accentuating her face. She would peak out through the hairs, and scrunch her nose in embarrassment at her state, and you would be hard taxed not to tell her how cute she was.

Her smile was big and sincere, warm to the memory, and the way she bit her lip made me want to press mine to hers. Her voice was the call of songbirds and her laugh, gods, her laugh made me wish desperately that her sides were tender so that I could poke her, prod her, make her laugh on command. Her company itself was mystical, commanding attention yet never needing to do so. In her presence the rest, lacking anything comparable to her, slipped away and you would give her your focus of your own free will.

And her mind, as if nothing could surpass her stature, would make blind men fall in love with her. Stories of good times and strange happenstances flowed uninhibited. Her life her stories her jokes her views flowed seamlessly together into one long spoken enchantment, captivating your inner audience. Only sometimes would you hear words and phrases and descriptions that you recognized and realize that she had bewitched you not into listening to her but in conversing with her.