Young John Yet Again

"But you're just a girl"

"That's hardly my fault." She wiped another tear from her face and smeard it on my coat sleeve. We'd been drinking and smoking and laughing and crying all night and we'd come to the conclusion that neither one of us wants to bring a girl child into the world.

But she hardly minded being a girl. They only slightly battered her throughout the years and she had held my own. Sure, she was either obsessed over or cast aside, a dangerous rope to walk, but considering her natural akwardness and her untamed youth, she made it out relatively unscathed.

If there were a mirror of true beauty in my eyes, I would show her face to the world.

But there never was.

We took another shot at our cigarettes and realized that they had both burnt out. She towered over me when she stood and I could see her wobbling out of her all too high heels. I stood in time to steady her and lead her to the car.

Another long night. Another wasted tear. And I loved her even more with the mascara running down her face and her heals kicked off in my Camry, whispering "I wish every man could be like you, Young" in the freezing darkness. In the cool yellow street light her words shown on her face as we drove away and she dosed off to forget that we'd ever cried or laughed or dreamed or drank.