Every Girl I've Loved A Lifetime Ago

Maria

Maria's fingernails were painted blue nearly everyday.
Her dark hair was always braided and her faded jeans always cuffed.
She was a couple inches taller than me and a couple shades darker.
She was the fastest girl in the ninth grade.
Maria had a chip on her shoulder and something to prove.
Maria was made of rough edges, sharp corners, and rigid lines.
She had a smoker's voice, a sailor's mouth, and a liar's tongue.
She came to me when my mamá wasn't home, hips swaying side to side, first few buttons of her blouse undone, lips painted a dangerous red.
She left me whenever she wanted, footsteps muted and guilty, braided hair let loose, eyes gleaming with liquid gold satisfaction.
Maria's father died in the war, she had a foldable, wallet size photograph of him that she took with her everywhere she went.
Maria's mother gave up after her husband died, she stopped cleaning, cooking, keeping, raising, working.
Maria worked three jobs, fed four children, slept two hours each night, and ate one meal a day.
She was filled with anger at her mother for losing it, anger at her siblings for being so needy, anger at her father for dying, anger at herself for being so angry, anger at the world for dealing her such shitty cards.
Maria was a creature born of resentment.
Maria wanted to be a dancer. She confessed it to me one night, when it felt like we were the only ones awake for miles.
We were lying, side by side, hands interlocked, legs intertwined, hearts interlaced.
There were no crickets chirping, no car alarms blaring, no jet motor hum from a plane flying up above. All there was to hear was each other's heavy, calming breathing, each other's wild, rhythmic heart's beating, each other's hushed, gentled words.
"What do you wanna be when ya grow up?"
"It's silly."
"I won't laugh."
"...I wanna be a dancer. Dressed in red, slow moving tempo, glaring spotlights. Glory and fame and to be like the wind. All of it... I want that."
"That's beautiful."
"It's a dream."
"A beautiful one."
Maria had the best hips out of every girl in ninth grade. They were swollen and elegant, curved and wide. Sensual and smooth.
I, and many of the boys around me, dreamt about them.
Dreamt about running our hands along them, feeling their curve, their swell, their softness. Dreamt about them shaking, grinding, sashaying.
Maria had the waist of a dancer, and the beauty of one too.
But she didn't move like one.
She moved like a runner.
She had the strut of someone who wished to run away from the world.
She had the stride of someone who wanted out, who wanted bigger, better things and was willing to go as far as she needed to find them.
She was not graceful, like a dancer. She was not flexible, like a dancer. She was not gentle, like a dancer. She was not soft, like a dancer.
But I did not tell her those things.
I could not, for the inky want swirling in her amber eyes was too precious to dillude.
We did not speak at school, Maria and I.
But I always congratulated her whenever her track team won a competition.
She always laughed at my jokes and grinned at me in the halls.
She helped me study for math exams and I gave her pointers in English.
Through the eyes of our peers, we were friendly but not familiar.
Acquaintances but nothing more.
And yet we knew every inch of each other's skin.
Every fold and crease, shadow and valley.
We'd feel each other's skin until our finger tips knew nothing else.