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The Girl Who Flies
I’m watching her swing; not as a stalker or as a creep. But I’m watching her in fascination.
Her legs slowly pump in a vertical motion. Up and down. Up and down. Higher and higher into the air. She’s flying.
Her smile is alight upon her face, dimples stretching upon her porcelain cheeks. Her eyes flashing in childish delight. Her everlasting laughter cutting through the calm air of her surroundings.
My breath is caught way up in my throat, as I watch her do her daily tango with the swing. She’s magnificent.
I slowly build up my confidence to approach her sometime. She is beautiful and I want to be the first to tell her.
Her lithe figure slowly stops pumping and the swing gradually slows to a halt.
She leaves, and I’m alone once again.
She’s back, another day, another time, but the motions are always the same. I watch her, and she swings. She flies.
She’s wearing blue today I notice, a bright sky blue, the color of her eyes. She’s beautiful.
She throws her head back in mirth, her eyes squinted closed, and her cheeks are a picturesque view. Full and in obvious happiness with the dimples stretched upon them once again, as usual.
She is more happy today I observed. More childish and exuberant.
I need to talk to her soon.
She leaves again.
Today, she isn’t here. I’m waiting, waiting, and waiting. She isn’t coming back today I suppose. Maybe tomorrow.
Day two of the disappearance of the girl who flies. Maybe she’s on vacation.
Day three, the girl who flies is still not here.
And she’s back, but she looks different. She looks… sad. She isn’t even swinging. She isn’t flying.
I don’t think I’m going to talk to her today.
A few more days, and she’s still sad, still different, she’s still fallen.
I’m going to make her get better.
“Hey, you don’t know me, but I think you’re beautiful.”