Krista prefers to look at the ground instead of at people’s faces. Because the ground doesn’t expect anything whereas people do. Especially when they hear silence and think they can fill it.
“People often ask me questions like what’s your deal? And were you raped or something? I don’t answer because I don’t think they care.”
A man touches her shoulder and says, “You’re beautiful… I’m James.” She looks at the ground. He gets the point. And walks away.
“Would you prefer that I go too?” I ask. She shakes her head no, but still looks at the ground. So I stand with her. Until she finds a cigarette and asks if I want to go outside.
We leave the Halloween party and sit on a curb half a block down the road. And she blows smoke at the ground. And asks why I’m here with her when I could be in there with some other women.
I tell her that I’m here because I choose to be. And because of a series of events that included mint tea and fairy godmothers and yellow fences and dirty Converse shoes.
She lifts her head. And smiles. And blows smoke at the moon instead of at the ground. “Can I tell you a story?” she asks. I nod.
As she speaks, her gaze moves from the moon to the ground to my eyes to the moon to the ground. And continues in a circle like that.
And her emotions move at the same pace and in the same circle. As does the tone and tempo of her voice. And the smoke that she exhales.
When she’s done, she asks, “Do you think I’m disgusting now?”
I tell her to look at her hands. To touch her face. To feel her heart. And to know that stories aren’t people. They’re just stories.
