There is a blonde girl in the corner. Blonde for me implies I find her attractive. But in this case, it isn’t her hair. Not that she is unattractive. She is one of those people my friends and I argue over exactly how she rates on whatever scale we are using that week to measure a girl (the Uma, the Wynnona, the Basinger). But the interesting part is this: I watch her watch herself. As she is sitting there, she is staring at her midriff, not bare, like so many other girls at the party. But she is inspecting herself. I wonder in my head whether she is happy or not. I see her suck her bottom lip into her mouth and then hold it there, her jaw clenching a bit, keeping her lip in place. She is biting her lip, as if to hold in her emotions. It is incredibly erotic. I can’t tell if she is happy or not. Still. I want to think she is. I like to think she is a well-adjusted young girl who is happy to be herself. She lets her lip go a second later and her right hand is drawn to her mouth and she picks at her lip for a good 15 or 20 seconds, distractedly. Her left moves to her stomach. Then she seems to remember she is here and now and not wherever she had been visiting in her mind and she stops, stands up and walks into the mass of people to mingle and forget whatever memory had been holding her enthralled.
My night is made, living happily through her.
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