You know the city: it’s that place tucked between those two mountains so the sun never shines on it.Â It’s where your worst nightmares don’t bother hiding behind the corners.
It’s also a wonderful place, filled with incredible secrets, legends walking about as if they own the place, and this one girl with blonde hair whom I’ve fancied since the moment I saw her.
I don’t usually go for blondes, but so what.Â She’s not just beautiful, she’s sharp.Â I’m nervous enough when she’s around because of how she looks, and how she uses those eyes.Â You’d expect blue because of the hair, but her eyes are the lightest shade of brown I’ve ever seen, almost bronze, almost gold.Â And she knows how to cast them about to great advantage.
I’ve seen killers turn away because she looked at them.Â Seriously.Â You think I’d make this up?
But it’s her words that stop me.Â They’re too much.Â She speaks seven languages, maybe ten, and throws in all those words whenever they seem best for what she wants to say.Â Facts support her opinions.Â She’s never given anything just a little thought.
She started thinking about me last night.Â Only been six months since I met her.Â We’ve drunk from the same bottle of wine.Â (She only likes red.Â Don’t ask me why.)Â She’s said words to me in the past, stuff I couldn’t always understand.Â Told me how best to sautÃ© mushrooms, and where in this city you can find fresh garlic, and why the ghost of her grandmother never materialized despite all her grandfather’s preparations.
I thought she was teasing me, actually.
But last night, at the jazz bar, whilst our group passed around bottles of bourbon-infused wine, she actually spoke to me.Â Said my name, asked me a question–and it was the way she asked that question that’s got me all twisted up inside.
I think she’s part gypsy.Â I’m sure of it.Â Her skin’s too dark to go with the blonde hair, and I can’t imagine she’s out sunning herself at the beach.Â (Of course not; there’s no beach here.)Â And while her words carry a dozen different accents that shift every syllable, I’m sure she favors German or Russian or Transylvanian.
Usually, people ask this question out of exasperation.Â Hands thrown in the air, not quite surrender: “What do you want from me?”
But she put the emphasis on you, and on me, while her eyes suggested she would seriously consider anything I requested.
I admit, I’m sometimes stupid.Â I could’ve said asked for her love, her undying devotion, or something silly like her trust.Â I could’ve been bold and admitted I wanted to make love to her until the sun came up.Â (You get it, right?Â No sun in Midnight.)
I didn’t do any of those things.
Instead, I asked a question.Â Didn’t think about it.Â The words spilled from my mouth.Â I hoped they were good words, because it took a while for me to realize what I’d said.Â “Can I start with a kiss?”
She said, “No.”
And it hurt.Â I admit it.Â Such a small thing.Â She could’ve blown me off with a kiss on the cheek, something like that.Â But that’s the thing, she’s never been a liar, and she’s never said anything but what she means.
“You start,” she told me, this beautiful blonde gypsy goddess from the brightest corners of my dreams, “by asking me to dance.”
Just then, the band started playing.
What do you think happened next?
I love this city.