The Blonde Girl

The Smiling Moose Deli in Vail
was empty except for a couple
huddled over corned beef sandwiches
in the darkest corner.

Sunlight streamed in the window
where we stood examining the
menu above the counter where a girl
in a dirty black apron tapped her
manicured fingernail on the computer
waiting for us to decide.

A gaggle of five teens
sauntered in, two boys in well-pressed
jeans and new Air Jordan 5 Retros
on their feet. Rich boys with flawless haircuts,
dark curls cascading down foreheads.

One girl reigned over the pack.
Long blonde hair, lit from within, flat-ironed
to perfection, spilled over her shoulders.
Her face was sun-kissed with white teeth
aligned perfectly after many years in braces,
a fringe of blonde eyelashes lined eyes
made of gem quality turquoise.

The boys, though they knew her well,
were glued to her tinkling laugh, her short denim shorts,
her aura. She drew them in without realizing
of the power of her beauty,
totally guileless, unaware of her audience.

Instantly I hated her and her perfect teeth,
her sun-kissed face, her French manicure.
She was like the ones in high school
and even college who acted like
there was a bad smell in the room when I was there
in my hand-me-down clothes, my shoes from the
local thrift store, hair I cut myself.

“Hey, Linda Baloney —my last name was Valonen—
they cackled, “Better get back to your barn
with the rest of the pigs!”

The turquoise eyes stepped behind me
in line at the sandwich counter as I stiffened
thinking of the hateful words turquoise eyes
would hurl at me, when suddenly I heard
from behind me a sweet soft voice say,
“Miss, your hair clip is amazing.
I love all the different colored stones.
It’s beautiful.”

---