Day 33

Use pens as your material/inspiration today. Draw with them, use them as construction material or . . .?

A pen. Blue or Black ink. Wet or dry. Push or twist. So many choices for a pen. I picked up the one next to me and placed it behind my ear.

“Excuse me, I think that’s my pen,” said a soft voice behind me.

When I turned around she was stunning, I quickly tried to think of a way to prolong this conversation. I thought of nothing, instead pulled the pen from my ear and glanced at it. “I don’t think so,” I said.

“No it is you see, it says Greenville, NC. That’s where I’m from. R & D recyclers is my dad’s company, and I wouldn’t normally mind, but I have to address some mail and that’s the only pen I have on me at the moment.”

I wasn’t listening to her. Instead I was trying to figure all this out in my head. There was no way that she was actually there, standing in front of me, beautiful as the day I left. Her standing in cut off jean shorts. Her blond hair hung down to her waist. Her breasts like mosquito bumps, undeveloped . She was thirteen.

I was sixteen and left her smoking a cigarette from her dad’s pack as I drove away on my motorcycle. I was so tired of that hell hole. The only thing that had been keeping me there, was her. My best friend. The girl I had grown up with. Now fifteen years later here she was, in the middle of the airport in Madrid, Spain, developed.

“Excuse me, sir, my pen?” She interrupted my thoughts.

“Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue, pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty Peggy Sue.” I sang as if I was a child again. She blushed like one.

“Danny?” she whispered.

I gave her a slight nod of recognition and she jumped into my arms. Her mail and the pen that connected us dropping to the floor. She kissed me on the lips and buried her face in my neck. “I thought I’d never see you again,” she whispered, “but I never stopped looking.”

And then I just blurted it out after fifteen years, “ I love you, Peggy Sue.”



P.S. I can’t wait to see them live. KOL, Revelry.

Please note: I have just now realized after re-reading this post what a hopeless romantic sap I am. I’m sure you all are bored with my quest for true love as much as I am. Why couldn’t I have been a sci-fi writer?