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The Picnic Girl
The girl was sitting all alone, all alone at the table. It made my heart ache to see her just sitting there, nowhere to go, nothing to do. Without any parents to care for her, even. It made my heart ache for her.
Now, I had seen her sit there for ages, just staring blankly for ages. It never failed, rain or shine, Sunday or Friday, Christmas or Halloween. I knew she was an orphan, the kids next door told me that. But what broke my heart the most was that she was sixteen, barely able to fend for herself, just sitting there all day long. And she was an orphan.
Now, yeah, I’m only two years older. But still, I have a heart, you know? A heart for the poor soul that rested within that shell that sat at the table all year long. I don’t know her name, or whether she has a place to stay.
Finally, after four months of living in the apartment above that table, watching her as she just sat there, staring, I got up the nerve to go over and talk to her.
Sitting across from her, with a plate of muffins, I said, “Hey, my names Bill. Wanna muffin?” she stared at me for a few seconds.
“I’m JC. Stands for Jamie Chandler. And yeah, I’ll take a muffin. Thanks.” She said softly, delicately picking up one of the blueberry crumble muffins and taking a small bite.
“I live one floor up, how ‘bout you?” I asked, taking a muffin myself and pointing to my window.
“I live two doors down. With my grandma.” Ah, so that’s where she goes at night. One, no, two mysteries solved. I also know her name now.
“Oh, okay. I live alone. My roommate finally manned up and got a good paying job.” I told her, earning a giggle and a raised eyebrow.
“And where does he live?” she asked, peeling off the wrapped on the bottom of her muffin.
“About four doors down from mine. Though he’s currently passed out on my couch for heaven knows why.” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Does he do that a lot?” she giggled, again, making her pretty blonde hair bounce slightly.
I gave a sigh, “Yeah, he does. I think he still thinks of it as his place too. At least he brings an offering for use of my couch.” I gestured to the muffins, “He owns his own bakery.”
There was a shout, and she turned. The voice yelled again, in a language I didn’t know. She gave me an apologetic smile.
“I have to go. It was nice meeting you.” She got up and started walking. “Thanks for the muffin!”
And so I was left with an empty plate of muffins and a new sense of the picnic table girl called JC.
She wasn’t all alone, she had a grandma.
She had a cute laugh.
She had nice hair.
She looked cute when eating a muffin.
And I was totally and insanely crushing on her.