Verbal Photographs 3

A smudge of crimson lipstick on almost white teeth. Careless primping shattered her first impression. She shrugs in embarrassment feverishly rubbing her teeth with her index finger.

He brushes an eye lash from her cheek and she smiles shyly. She avoids his loving gaze, touching his arm with hers.

She stumbles over each word, tripping over commas and periods.

Baby blue, stone washed denim leggings perch on his thin hips. Over-sized aviator sunglasses tip toe to the end of his narrow nose. He takes a meaningful drag of his barely there cigarette and flicks it into the air, ignoring its landing spot.

She trips out of the doorway and into the overcast day. She looks around, seemingly hoping that no one saw her mistake.

He dips into his mother’s deep purse. He pulls out a pen, a soft brown wallet, a cough drop, two tampons, and an agenda. She glances at him and smacks her lips. He pulls out a worn bag bursting with cosmetics. She starts to toss the things back in the purse, fanning him away.

She cups her hands over her mouth and sneezes. The person sitting next to her looks on in disgust.

He slips his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She leans towards him, resting her head on his chest and sighing. They both look toward the approaching bus, he fiddles with the wool collar on her grey pea coat, and she pats her hair down when he’s done.

He barrels into the classroom with his tattered book bag strapped on upside down and half-zipped. His dark brown hair is greasy, the curls are limp. He picks at his scalp and flakes of dandruff fall on his face. He wears the same clothes every day, and they smell like every spice his mother uses to cook dinner.

The bark on each tree looks smooth as we drive by, they are eternally dark against the unforgiving gray of the winter sky.