The Red Pitchfork

This miserable fall day could have never prepared my eyes for the beauty that was to come only hours later. For once, the Manhattan air was not dominated by taxi horns, and the sound of corporate neck ties stepping their way through the city streets and sidewalks, but instead, by the sound of rain droplets plunging from the sky and on to the pavement. However, nothing really seemed out of the ordinary. I made my 19 block walk from Penn Station to Roseland Ballroom, and there she was waiting for me. Only literally in my dreams. Living, breathing, walking, talking beauty, the most vivid of its kind, standing not ten feet away from me. She is clearly out of my league. In fact, I can’t imagine that she is in anyone’s league.

I could not take my eyes off of her. Her lips. Jesus Christ, those lips that she had. Full lips that fit her face quite nicely that were painted in a crimson and shined to perfection which easily stood out on her smooth, powdery skin. A silver hoop hugged the right side of her bottom lip that I caught her tongue playing with on several glances that I took the liberty of taking. A small and pointy nose sat in the center of her face with a tiny, fake diamond stud going through her left nostril. She had the bluest eyes that would camouflage in a clear July sky. Wrapped around her eyes was a thick black layer of eye shadow and mascara which dripped down her cheeks from the tearing sky. And it was at this point that I realized, Atreyu was wrong. There IS beauty in bleeding mascara. She chose not to take advantage of the hood that was attached to her grey hoodie, and let her silky and straight jet black hair mosh through the wind. Her hair seemed to flail through the air and into her face in slow motion, which she would constantly clear away from her eyes with her small, pale, black nail polish painted fingers.

This specimen could not have been more than 5 feet, 3 inches tall. She had small breasts that were perfectly proportionate to her body. She was short and skinny, which made her tall, black and white boots that probably contained enough lace to lasso the homeless guy across the street that was screaming what seemed like a mix between Gibberish and Japanese, or some other language that I will never learn…or maybe it was perfect English but I just chose not to pay attention, stand out as one of her many visible bold features. She stood talking to her two girlfriends for the next hour until the venue had opened, and I am confident that if I was asked to give a detailed description of either of them to police, it would extend to them both being female, and end right then and there.

It was finally time to walk into the venue. I had my friends ticket that I was waiting for, and lucky for me, that son of a bitch was late, and I was forced to let people that were behind me go inside before I could. For whatever reason, I chose to never bring this chick up to him even though it had consumed me for the entire night. I watched as the only thing that has ever literally taken my breath away turned her back on me and walk into the distance. It wasn’t until seconds before the last time I would ever lay my eyes on her that I noticed the red pitchfork tattoo on the back of her right leg. Just another unique feature that stood out to me in case our paths were meant to cross again that night, or any night. Instead of enjoying the show, I spent a majority of it with my eyes wandering across this orgy of thousands, looking for the girl with the pierced face and black hair. However, she was nowhere to be seen. While it was a disappointment, her figure is forever branded in my mind until the day that our four blue eyes become tangled from a close distance, or until I am the only person to notice an illuminating red pitchfork on the back of someone’s right leg.Thought Catalog Logo Mark

image – Liz Grace

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