Mark & Sophie

Her eyes were so crisp and bright, but he couldn’t see them. Instead he was greeted by her long brown hair that smelled of vanilla and practically brushed the top of his desk.

He wanted to touch her long locks, to run his fingers through the ends of the hair that sat just above the pencil holder. He wanted so desperately to let the hair tickle his fingers, but he wanted to see her eyes more.

And he wanted to see her mouth.

Taking a big breath full of vanilla and feeling himself harden, he placed his feet on the metal book rack under her chair and rapidly started bouncing them, shaking the chair she sat in.

Her hair bounced a bit but there was no reaction from the girl.

He picked up his pen and placed it between his fingers and started drumming the desk with the pen.

Still nothing but a couple glances from other classmates.

He needed Sophie to turn around.

He stopped playing with the pen and resumed shaking her chair with his feet again as he fixated on the hair that practically tickled his fingers. And that’s when it happened. Finally, her hair brushed his fingers as it swirled a bit before she whispered, “Please stop.”

It happened so quickly, he missed seeing her eyes—her mouth—as she faced forward just as quickly as she had whispered for him to stop.

The fidgeting ceased, but it was as if the whisper was directed at his penis because it throbbed so much that he instantly placed his feet back onto the back of her chair and bounced it with even more vigor.

“C’mon, Mark,” she said turning around to look at him. “Stop.”

He tried pretending like he was looking out the window, but he had to look at those eyes, that mouth. He smiled at her and when she grinned back, he prayed not to explode.

Mark’s feet slipped off the book rack under her seat and onto the floor where he continued to bounce them.

She turned back to face the front of the class and as she did, her long brown hair slowly danced near his fingertips.

Mark sat there looking at his hand and the brown hair that kissed it. He wanted to say something more—do something more—but wasn’t sure what, so he continued to sit there for a minute before his shoes found their way back onto the book rack under her chair and started fidgeting again.

“Mark,” she whispered as she turned to face him. Her mouth was closed and wasn’t grinning.

“Sorry, Sophie,” he said shyly, sitting up straight in his chair, flipping his long blond hair in front of his face as he looked down into his book.

Sophie turned back around more slowly this time, but Mark wasn’t able to watch. He wished they weren’t in the classroom together. He wished the other classmates weren’t around. They didn’t like Sophie. She was the new girl and nobody liked the new girl. But Mark did. And he wanted her to know that he thought of her often, and he wanted to let her know how sorry he was about confronting her with the others when she first started at the school.

But he couldn’t tell her there in the classroom.

So he sat there with his hair in front of his face, thinking of Sophie’s beautiful blue eyes; wondering if she thought about him as much as he thought of her—or at all, for that matter; wanting to rub himself into oblivion but trying to focus on the teacher’s drone in hopes of calming everything down.

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writing while sleeping

I wrote this earlier today while I was trying not to fall asleep at work. I knew I was falling asleep but I was hoping maybe I wouldn’t if I started writing… and, also, I thought it might be interesting to see what I would do if I did fall asleep. Pretty interesting results–if you can read through all the horrid typos. Maybe tomorrow, when I have more time, I’ll translate this. Or maybe not. 🙂

 

It’s hard not falling asleep at work some times. I never used to be like this. Notreally. But lately I’ve just been so tired. Actually I think it started when I got pregnant and had to nap nearly dail. At tleast I had a reason then. Now I’m not pregnant, just fat. So what’s my excuse? I mean, how bloody rude is it that I fall asleep. WHILE I’M SUPSE D TO BE WORKING. Almost put married because I’m pretty much writing this with my eyes closed. Because I’m SO tired. It’s not normal to be this tired I don’t think. Is it? Maybe it’s the drugs. The Prozac, th elebaalol. I dnno.

ZPoor gilr afcross from me has to  answer all the dmb calls now. Better here than me that’s for dang sure. I hate answering th ephon, I hate cleaning up after.

I hate wearing stockings or socks

I just like my feet to be nakeed whenever time allows.

Which isn’t often.

I’m literally flaaing asleep right now. Wow. I tired typing in the hopes that it would wake me up, but it doesn’t seem to marry. I keep typing . I keep trying to wak but my eyes are SO heavy. Like garage doors that have afallen off its hinges. BAM!! They (my eyelids) just scrash into the ground.

 

Soon I’m gonna snoring. I already dis so once – that I caught- and then I played it off, of course, like it was just a blech or something.

They have to know. THEY HAVE to know I sleep wile I’m re

the hair cut

It fluttered for a moment, magnificent in its struggle, then wilted and lay still. I looked down near my Docs then up into the mirror to gauge Margo’s reaction. There wasn’t one. The other girls seemed to be watching for one, too. Instead, silence suffocated the salon.

“Is that okay?” I said, my voice feeling like monstrous thunder in the still of the salon. I retrieved the five inch thick curl of hair from the floor and held it up for Margo to view.

“I s’pose,” Margo hummed. “But I may want even more cut off after yer done, okay?”

“Of course.”

I continued cutting Margo’s silver and black hair and wondered why she was wanting such a change. This was her first time with me. Actually, it was her first time in the salon. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a salon to get her hair done, but she needed a change. “Desperately,” Margo added, dropping her eyes from mine.

She wanted a little life put back into her hair, she told me. Something that wouldn’t require her to color it, nor require much maintenance. She couldn’t afford to do either, and I was pretty sure she wasn’t referring to just money.

There was something about Margo that intrigued me more-so than most first time clients, and I found myself trying to get her to talk more.

“I bet you’ll be a lot cooler with shorter hair,” I smiled, focusing on cutting.

“That’d be nice.”

“Has it ever been short?”

“Not since I was a kid.”

What was it about this woman that I needed to know?

“Have you ever tried blowing your hair out?”

Margo shifted in her seat before answering, “It’s just too much work. I’d love it straight, but we all want what we don’t have.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” I snickered.

I looked at the mirror and found Margo’s eyes and immediately felt something that I really don’t know how to describe. A connection of sorts, perhaps? I’m not sure, but I needed to keep this woman talking. It felt necessary.

“What?” she softly asked when our eyes met. “What is it you want that you don’t have?”

Love…happiness…peace, my brain shouted, but instead I smiled and said, “Oh ya know, the usual stuff: my own home, a new car n stuff.”

“Hmm,” a grin washed across Margo’s face. “That’s just ‘stuff’ though. Is there anything you want that doesn’t cost money?”

“Of course,” I replied, trying to focus on more cutting; Margo had a lot of hair.

With another grin washing across her face, Margo continued: “One of my favorite quotes is from Picasso: ‘Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.’”

Our eyes met again, and again there was that… spark.

I thought about what she said for a moment and her eyes dropped back down into her lap like they had done when she first sat down with me. I continued cutting her hair when suddenly I blurted out, “Is that why you’re cutting off all this hair?”

Immediately I wished it back. I don’t know why I had become so defensive. But when I finally looked back at Margo, she was grinning again. And she was looking into my eyes again with so much kindness.

“My hair, for me,” she said smiling, “is just more ‘stuff’. It doesn’t really matter in the long run, ya know?”

I returned her smile and noticed her blue eyes started to shine and that, in turn, made me start to well up as well.

I finished cutting her hair and when it was all said and done, she smiled big again, shook her head and curls and thanked me, telling me I did a great job, that I was right to start cutting it longer.

A couple weeks later, I got a card in the mail at the salon. It was from Margo with no last name, no return address. The front of the card had an image of someone sitting on a bench watching the sunset. Inside the card was a handwritten note:

John Steinbeck said, “I wonder how many people
I’ve looked at all my life and never seen.”
I want you to know that I saw you,
the REAL you and you deserve love and happiness.
You just got to believe that. Truly believe it.
Thanks for the great hair cut!
-Margo

 

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well, this was new for me… i’m not one to generally go sappy when writing fiction. hope it was still enjoyable.