There was a rip in her jeans.

She walked, shoved really, through a knot of throbbing conversation on her way to the main doors. She was so tired, her brain itched. But even as her skull seemed a heavier load by the second, she couldn’t get that rip out of her mind.

Of course, she was the only one who knew that the tiny rend existed. The image of it was burned onto the inside of her eyelids: a gouge, fringed by blue-gray-white threads, directly beneath her right back pocket. The jeans were worn often, and worn thin. She knew it would soon be time to trade them in, but… she’d have to be convinced first. Nothing short of thorough mortification could rend those jeans from her love now. As they deteriorated, though, she mourned. It was like watching an old friend waste away from cancer or AIDS or… something.

I kinda knew how she felt.

The heavy glass doors strained open by a ruddy, slender arm, followed by a ruddier, even more slender sophomore girl. Her name was… Allison, or Annabelle. Something like that. Her hair was that indeterminable shade between blonde and brunette, and a voluminous, curly texture that was like a frizzier version of a bold movie-star mane. But she had a rip in her jeans. An invisible rip only she saw.

She crossed the courtyard to the building where advanced art and welding and stuff were taught. She wasn’t strictly beautiful, but one never really got tired of looking at her. She was skinny, skinny, skinny, but in a natural way, like you knew she’d been that way all her life. Her hands and feet were slightly too big for her body, making her look cartoonish… absurd.

Her shoulder leaned into the door and she entered the brick building. Man, was she tired. The purple bruised rings under her eyes painted a pretty picture on her reddish face. Her cheeks and nose were always blotchy, like she was perpetually cold or had a fever. But it looked cute on her. Really.

She was thinking furiously about the rip as she backed into her row and crash-landed in her seat. She wondered how blind the student body must’ve been not to notice it, or how stupid. It loomed in her mind’s eye like an omen or a hallucination of Armageddon.
A tragic yawn escaped her. She must have stayed up late to look so tired. Probably awake through the softest hours of the night, reading something amazing like Catcher In the Rye. Yeah, she could make a guy feel like Holden Caulfield just by looking at her. She was just that kind of girl. It’s hard to explain.

Abigail… that’s right.

Her name was Abigail. She had a rip in her jeans that only she knew about. And I was falling violently in love with her.