November 13, 2003
There are certain words that have a...lavish feeling in your mouth. Like "Ferrero Rocher." Like "Veuve Cliquot." Like "crushed velvet." Like "Alicia."
Or... Did you ever see the Ramones live? Ever ridden in a Ferrari that wasn't even red? When you hear "China White," do you <i>not</i> think of a dinner plate? Then you know why skye is different and how different she is. She's not my girl, she's not your girl, she's <i>her</i> girl... she's not <i>a</i> girl, she's <i>the</i> girl.
She scintillates with contradiction. You wouldn't want to meet her pissedoff in a back alley -- trust me, she knows martial art you've never heard of -- yet she can be so fragile she'd almost dissolve on the tip of your tongue. She's as jaded as the concierge of a brothel and as fresh as a leaf with a raindrop on it. With half a twirl she can make girls and boys suck breath, and yet.. you know who admires her for her mind and manners? My mother-in-law, beat that.
After five-years-almost, skye and I speak a language full of knots and branches and bubbling with laughter no one could predict. Hand in hand we sidle through memories close and impatient as the crowd in a train station. Almost always apart, we chat early and write late; together so rarely, we still might scarcely speak. The monumental privacy of a big city suits us, but she's enough to make any waiter flirt.
I've never known another woman quite like skye, and for once I'm not held hostage by my picky taste in friends; I doubt there'd be another one to know. The way we feel about each other is as reassuring as hard candy in a raincoat pocket.
