Carrickfergus

I just wrote it here while I was sitting here. The title is always whatever song I'm listening to at the time, so it doesn't mean anything.

It's a pretty good story, and she wishes people would ask about it, but nobody has. She can sort of imagine what it must have been like at the beginning, can hear a couple of 'em pop their gum and grin, "I give 'em two days, tops." So it wasn't all cherries and cream or whatever the hell the expression is, she has trouble with expressions.

Anyway, she wants them to ask because it would give her a chance to explain herself, a chance to prove that she wasn't insane or psycho, he was the a*****e here. Take pity on her. Some goody-two-shoes coed from a Catholic school when she was barely Catholic anyhow, debating the existence of God in her head while the classroom moms were going on and on about the dangers and sin of premarital sex.

Oh, please. What a joke. That was such a joke. A way for a bunch of people to try and take control of everybody else's life, as if sex were some dirty filthy thing rather than intimacy and love and survival of the species all at once. These were the same people that wanted to blow up the Koran and forget the crusades, wash it all away in wine and the blood of Jesus. Hated them. Hated the lot of 'em, and the hypocrisy, the stubornness, the endless genuflecting. But she would wait till marriage.

But back to the story, which is actually pretty good, if you scrap freshman year, which was pretty bad. When she looks back now she can still see herself walking along thinking everybody's her friend, saying hi to the people who were talking s**t about her five minutes ago. She wants to drop down beside her and say, "You poor kid, you had no clue, you were just doing what you thought was right." Maybe give her a hug or a baseball cap, cause that haircut was pretty bad.

----

"Hey buddy, hows it going?"

She freakin' loves that text message. It's from January 22nd but she's saved it all this time. He knows she loves it when he calls her "buddy".

Wearing miniskirts and makeup for him is fun but most of the time her favorite thing is putting on her long shorts and a tee and playing lacrosse in the park. She can cradle now, thanks to the little kisses he'd give her every time she could move the stick without letting the ball drop. And she can pass, kinda. Well, not really. But it's fun because he's with her, because he's so wonderful in more ways than she ever could have dreamed of.

When they've had enough of the balls and shaft---that's one of their favorite things to do together, make dirty jokes---they sit under a tree and talk about what they're going to do with their lives. He wants to be a journalist and a hockey player. She wants to be a musician, a writer, a politician, and a scientist. Most importantly, though, they want to be each other's.

It is a quiet, silent vow, between his rough hockey hands and her smooth violin ones, a cold day underneath a big pine tree. Home is his house with a giant comfy couch and hot chocolate. College is going to be hell.