She

You saw her sitting at a bus stop, waiting. Her backpack was slung carelessly over one shoulder. Your first thought was, "I want to know her name." When that thought struck you it was like a bolt of lightning. A new kind of energy was pumping through your veins. You were confused, but you were exhilarated.

She was like a runaway train, and you knew so from just one glance. Her hair was an effortless kind of wild and her eyes were a reckless kind of free.

Your conscience tapped on the door to your thoughts and whispered through the key hole, "Runaway trains always go down in flames." But you knew that. You didn't care. So you suffocated your conscience and felt the heat from the flames, waiting. But nothing is more intoxicating than playing with fire.

You knew she didn't need anyone. You knew she didn't belong to anyone. You felt the pull of her gravity and suddenly you were next to her. You could have reached out and touched the whisper of fog her breath made in the air.

Her eyes met yours and your heart lurched like your car did the first time you tried to drive a stick-shift. Your breath caressed hers and your eyes went to her lips as she spoke, "Hi."

Her voice was warm, like a shirt that just came out of the dryer. You let it invade you and wrap around your brain. You wouldn't forget it. You'd remember her voice long after you forgot her face.

But the word hung in the air. It was a question, one you didn't know how to answer. So you asked your own. "What's your name?"

As soon as the words escaped your lips your regretted them, willed them to disintegrate before they reached her ears.

But she told you. And you repeated it because all you wanted at that moment was to taste it. It dripped off your tongue like wine, and you knew it would only take a few more times and you'd be drunk.