It’s the girl from the post, The Letter That Killed Me.
My entire blog wouldn’t interest her one bit. Save for that particular piece. That—I bet—would bring fire into her eyes. And not the romantic kind, mind you.
We had only one argument. That happened just a few months after she gave me that letter. It went down fast and it went hard.
How did that start?
Since I was nursing a broken heart and I was still spouting poems and lyrics and stories—albeit sad—I channeled everything I felt on paper. A few friends, mostly my roommates, read it then persuaded me to have it published. Frankly, I already had that idea. I just needed someone to agree with me. So I did.
Predictably, I received raves of sort from friends and familiar folk. Save for one person.
Just days after the release of that particular issue—not even a full week went by—she sought me. While I was admittedly happy to see her, it was strange to see her without her usual smile. For the every first time, I saw her angry. Worse, she was angry at me.
Now if only you were there to hear and see us argue in the library, it would not be of any doubt why we became the gossip of the day. Possibly even for the week.
Yeah, I know I courted danger when I had that poem published. Same with the blog post. But I would risk it again and again, if only to write about her—not to necessarily anger her, for sure.
But, for the record, she has this rare and unexpected beauty that could only come out when she’s angry.