Hope
She'd heard enough about Fate and Fortune, and she didn't think they were worth their snuff. They didn't live down here, in the real world. They didn't know anything. They didn't hear the lovers laments, they didn't see the good intentions turned to dust. It was enough to make you give her up. Hope.
Hope stared into the flames of the fire she started late that night when the mosquitos started biting. She had finished her dinner of eggs on toast and braided her hair as the flames grew and grew. Her hair was well past her waist at this point, so the entire process was time consuming. The fire was raging by the time she was done, and she sat staring into it presently.
She'd met a boy earlier that summer, at the farmer's market. All great life questionings start that way, don't they? "I met a boy."
Well she did. She was poking the apples and the plumbs- she liked them supple and plump, their skins deep and rich. She was paying when she heard him. "A full ride, yeah," he was saying, running his hand through his hair sheepishly. It was sun-kissed at the tips, she noticed, and all together unruly.
"Cal Arts."
Hope searched her memory banks furtively as she lowered her head, using her dark hair as coverage to try and steal more covert glances at him. Energy seemed to buzz through him, from every slightly knobby limb.
Cal. California. He might as well have said Mars to all these small town folk in Ohio. He noticed her staring a beat before she noticed it herself.
Frogs croaking snapped her out of her reverie. She shouldn't be daydreaming so much anyways. She should be out, preforming her duties as a Muse. Sometimes her mere presence worked as inspiration enough, which was preferable for Hope. She always felt like she was too awkward to be a muse; too odd. As she came to witness up close that summer, some boys seemed to find her quirks endearing.
"I'm Adam," he'd said to her, extending his hand and his sloped smile.
"Hope." she answered, accepting his hand and shaking it gingerly. "I, I'm sorry for staring. I… love art."
She felt the words flop out of her mouth and immediately wished she could reel them back in. But his eyes seemed to sparkle as he took a step closer.
"Really? What kind of art? I'm into sculpting, I'd love to show you some of my stuff…"
She'd gone there later that night; they ate pirogues and drank ginger ale from the can through bendy straws. For dessert they had strawberry ice cream. It's funny how at one time, even the most familiar of places was new to you. Over the weeks, that's how Adam's apartment became. By the end of the month, she anticipated the mixed smell of dryer sheets and raspberry air freshener every time she walked through the door. By the end of the second month, he'd made her her own key.
But the end of the summer was coming and Hope new it. For a brief period she thought maybe he would change his mind. He was enamored with her- she could tell. Just as head over heels as she was. When she talked to the stray dogs on the street, when she plucked the petals off of the flowers in the park and ran them over the curves over her face, when he found the post-it notes full of doodles she'd hide in his sneakers- he always looked at her the same way. A disbelief, almost, mixed with a pride as if he'd carved her himself out of clay.
The packing started in late July. He was really leaving. She was different than other girls, she was just what he needed, but she wasn't enough. She'd left her key in his sneaker that morning when she left his apartment; him still fast asleep, his face crumpled in sleep.
Now, back at her fire outside her ramshackle cottage, she was cursing her half-sisters Fortune and Fate for not making any appearances for her. Worse people get what they want. Murderers walk free from courtrooms, burglars sneak right past alarms. She was a good girl by all accounts. She was nice and fair and kind. Where was the justice?
Fat raindrops started to fall, and thunder rumbled in the distance. She started to bring in her things when she saw him at the edge of the clearing. His face was open and hurt and he didn't understand. Love didn't know the distance between Ohio and California. Love was within them, no matter where they were.
She wrapped him in her favorite red navajo blanket to dry off and made them each a root beer float. He held her hands in his as he told her, "Love is hope."
Hope stared into the flames of the fire she started late that night when the mosquitos started biting. She had finished her dinner of eggs on toast and braided her hair as the flames grew and grew. Her hair was well past her waist at this point, so the entire process was time consuming. The fire was raging by the time she was done, and she sat staring into it presently.
She'd met a boy earlier that summer, at the farmer's market. All great life questionings start that way, don't they? "I met a boy."
Well she did. She was poking the apples and the plumbs- she liked them supple and plump, their skins deep and rich. She was paying when she heard him. "A full ride, yeah," he was saying, running his hand through his hair sheepishly. It was sun-kissed at the tips, she noticed, and all together unruly.
"Cal Arts."
Hope searched her memory banks furtively as she lowered her head, using her dark hair as coverage to try and steal more covert glances at him. Energy seemed to buzz through him, from every slightly knobby limb.
Cal. California. He might as well have said Mars to all these small town folk in Ohio. He noticed her staring a beat before she noticed it herself.
Frogs croaking snapped her out of her reverie. She shouldn't be daydreaming so much anyways. She should be out, preforming her duties as a Muse. Sometimes her mere presence worked as inspiration enough, which was preferable for Hope. She always felt like she was too awkward to be a muse; too odd. As she came to witness up close that summer, some boys seemed to find her quirks endearing.
"I'm Adam," he'd said to her, extending his hand and his sloped smile.
"Hope." she answered, accepting his hand and shaking it gingerly. "I, I'm sorry for staring. I… love art."
She felt the words flop out of her mouth and immediately wished she could reel them back in. But his eyes seemed to sparkle as he took a step closer.
"Really? What kind of art? I'm into sculpting, I'd love to show you some of my stuff…"
She'd gone there later that night; they ate pirogues and drank ginger ale from the can through bendy straws. For dessert they had strawberry ice cream. It's funny how at one time, even the most familiar of places was new to you. Over the weeks, that's how Adam's apartment became. By the end of the month, she anticipated the mixed smell of dryer sheets and raspberry air freshener every time she walked through the door. By the end of the second month, he'd made her her own key.
But the end of the summer was coming and Hope new it. For a brief period she thought maybe he would change his mind. He was enamored with her- she could tell. Just as head over heels as she was. When she talked to the stray dogs on the street, when she plucked the petals off of the flowers in the park and ran them over the curves over her face, when he found the post-it notes full of doodles she'd hide in his sneakers- he always looked at her the same way. A disbelief, almost, mixed with a pride as if he'd carved her himself out of clay.
The packing started in late July. He was really leaving. She was different than other girls, she was just what he needed, but she wasn't enough. She'd left her key in his sneaker that morning when she left his apartment; him still fast asleep, his face crumpled in sleep.
Now, back at her fire outside her ramshackle cottage, she was cursing her half-sisters Fortune and Fate for not making any appearances for her. Worse people get what they want. Murderers walk free from courtrooms, burglars sneak right past alarms. She was a good girl by all accounts. She was nice and fair and kind. Where was the justice?
Fat raindrops started to fall, and thunder rumbled in the distance. She started to bring in her things when she saw him at the edge of the clearing. His face was open and hurt and he didn't understand. Love didn't know the distance between Ohio and California. Love was within them, no matter where they were.
She wrapped him in her favorite red navajo blanket to dry off and made them each a root beer float. He held her hands in his as he told her, "Love is hope."
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