Summertime: The Girl

There are four of them, three guys and a girl. They stand in line for the Porta-Potties with the rest of the festival goers.The guys yabber saying ‘fuck dude’ and ‘hell yeah’ while tipping back Tecates and passing around inside jokes like joints. Even behind sunglasses, it’s unmistakable, their eyes are on the girl.

The girl has long tan legs and is gangly beautiful. Her left arm drapes across her modest chest, hand grabbing her other arm's elbow almost apologetically. She slouches a little, possibly because she's taller than the tallest guy in the group. She laughs along but makes no sound, her shoulders shake, she smiles a partial yet beguiling smile. Unlike the other girls in line, with powder-perfect cheeks and Pin-Up hair, her lips are bare and her hair lays loose.

I wonder which one likes her the most? The one who punches swear words like he’s stabbing at the air? The one who runs his thumb affectionately across his tattoos as if they were recently inked? Or the one who wears a silver skull ring on his middle finger and keeps checking for his wallet?  

The girl's nail polish is chipped, a remnant of some event’s past, the messiness not even an afterthought. Her wrists are adorned with a variety of thin bracelets, the kind gathered over years, from cities visited, friendships made and kept, mementos gifted. They’re not the kinds that come in a set.

She only moves when the line moves. She is present but not rapt, engaging in their chatter, yet often shamelessly somewhere else. When she wanders, the three try urgently to entice her attention.

She gives them a ‘here goes’ look as she turns to brave a recently vacated john. The guys nod their encouragement but continue, for a good ten seconds, to discuss Richie Ramone who’s releasing a solo album and how that can’t be a good idea, before they abruptly hush and huddle-up, foreheads nearly touching.

I hear, "…she…she…she…she…she…" laced with such unreserved awe that I hold my breath.

And then they giggle, they boy-giggle.