Sad Girl In June by Elizabeth Hottinger
The words: She needs a friend must be written across my tight lips. And trust: they are sealed like a crazy glue cap after a single use. Yet these people come to me out of nowhere to say nice things, ask me random questions they should be directing to girlfriends or sisters.
They choose me.
Perhaps it is my eyes that lie on me.
They are big and have always been bright like I have a twinkle or am on the verge of tears—however you choose to interpret them. I keep them between my chest and the ground usually or let them laser through the world in front of me so as not to bump into vehicles, people, or poles. Yet these people seek them like they should the eyes of something fine with nice shoes in the club.
They choose me.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy the attention and as much camaraderie as you can share with a stranger at Wendy’s, describing your hair in Ben Franklin, or choosing skinny jeans in T.J. Maxx.
I just don’t get it since I don’t fancy myself friendly or easy-to-know. And I have longtime friends who corroborate this story, short term ones who have threatened to pry me from my loner-ness and bring me tea, orange juice, and chicken noodle soup while in the throes of a flu. My mom has accused me of being “aloof” ever since I was a teen who had to look up the word to know what she meant. She wouldn’t tell me; just reminded me that I was a member of the club—the Look-It-Up club she had created to encourage independent thinking, lifelong learning, not to ask her questions she didn’t feel like answering…
But I always attract these people. And in times like these—I am not feeling the world this week; that kind of time—I figure it is the Universe trying to remind me that the world ain’t all bad no more than is everyone in it. Or else there is invisible ink on my forehead. I like the former idea better.