She centers herself when among friends, paying attention to everyone, jumping from one person to the next, making sure they’re comfortable, that they have a drink, a conversation to join in. You see her walk around, passing food, smiling, but look a bit closer and you’ll notice her body’s directed toward one point, or rather, one person. She’ll talk to him, and everyone will pass it off as a friendly gesture. How natural for her to just go and talk to him. They’re friends, past the awkward stage, she’s comfortable with him like she is with the others. So comfortable, a little touch, a slight brush, “it’s so her” they say.
She’s sexual, and they’re all aware of it. But of just how sexual? She’d rather save it.
Look at her eyes, crooked, but sweet. Look closer, she’s insecure. She realizes she’s not the best but she’s fine with it. She’s the second choice and that annoys her. But her anger doesn’t stay, it’s not her forte to stay angry. But she likes getting angry, the feeling’s so strong it makes her expressive but nobody sees it.
She needs but she’s not needy, and fears that she can be.
She can stand on her own, everyone believes that, but she doubts herself. They don’t know her the way she knows herself. Or maybe they do, she isn’t sure either. She wants to move, she wants to get out, she wants to see the world, and she’s capable of doing so. It’s her destiny. But she’s crippled you see. She loves too much. Everyone around her, those who tell her to go out and get what she should are the same people she’s afraid to leave to get them. How ironic, she thinks, will she eventually get out? Why yes, soon. Baby steps.
She’s confident and domineering, and she likes it that way. And her friends do well to reinforce it. She loves company, she likes being outside, but her constant need for balance has her lingering in the local park alone, eventually stopping to read a book or maybe just to sit and watch as people walk past.
She hates being lonely, but she appreciates her time alone. At a cafe with a book and a cup, eventually her mind wanders away from the book, from the coffee shop. She can’t help it, she’s a daydreamer. She’s more imaginative than they think she can be. Not quite as creative, but when she plays an image in her head, it’s like a memory she’s trying to recall. Every detail, every movement, every feeling seems so real. She does it often, and she does it well, oh so well. It’s her gift, and her curse, seeing something that looks so real, happy situations, what could be, and when it doesn’t happen, she doesn’t feel broken, she feels lost. For that kiss! What a kiss! But wait, what kiss?
Call her back to reality and she’ll desperately seek that her reality match up with at least a minuscule of her fantasy. Back to her circle of friends, she’ll touch his arm, look into his eyes, graze her foot up and down his calf. She’ll move in closer, until it makes him want to kiss her good night, and hopefully, good morning.