the girl in red

xxiv. there is a light that never goes out

Saturday, February 14th, 1976

Lafayette, Indiana

Bill

It had snowed nearly non-stop since last Friday, though not heavily, and the sheet of powder lining the grass radiated cold and blinded anyone who passed. Bill kicked a pile of it as he walked, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets despite the imminent risk of slipping on the sheer ice that lined parts of the sidewalk where the sun was blocked. Cars zoomed by to his right and birds chirped to his left, yet he didn't mind the contrast. He placed his hand on his eyebrows to block the sun as he ran across the crosswalk, narrowly making it before the green light flashed above his head.

His pace quickened as he turned and walked down the street, now surrounded on both sides by houses. Some were tall with pristine paint jobs and well-kept yards, while others were short with grown out lawns and chipped paint all over. A few sat in the middle, having bad paint jobs but an otherwise well-kept house. One of those was Dimitra's. The beige paint was chipped nearly everywhere and pieces of brick were missing from the pillars by the front door. Yet the yard was pristine, only browning in a few places, and the flowers and bushes were well-kept.

Dimitra matched it perfectly he thought to himself as she came into view, situated on the front step of the porch. A braid hung over each shoulder and thick denim jacket with a hole in the breast pocket shrouded her usually thin figure.

"Dimitra!"

She looked up when he called her name and a smile lit up her face, just as the sun did from high in the sky. "Hey, Bill."

He jogged the rest of the way to the steps and as Dimitra stood. She was still taller than him, only by maybe an inch, though, and he doubted it would change. She hugged him, which was more common an experience the past few weeks, before they both sat down, shoulder to shoulder. Her legs were longer than his, too, but his torso was longer. They were both skinny - too skinny, in fact - but her muscles were more defined than his. Her hair was brighter, too, a more pure red-orange than his near strawberry blonde.

"How are you?" he asked, turning to face her.

She shrugged. "Decent. School's killing me but I'm surviving. You?"

He still looked at her as he responded, "Same here."

Dimitra caught onto his gaze and asked, "What are you looking at?"

"Have I ever told you that you look European? Like, I can just tell by looking at you."

She furrowed her brows and looked at him from the corner of her eyes, which were one of the features he'd caught onto the moment he'd met her. They were heavily hooded and deep set, and her eyebrows were thick but not protruding. Her nose was big, there was no saying otherwise, but it fit her face perfectly.

"What do you mean?"

"When you lived in Russia, could you look at some people and just tell that they were American or some other nationality?"

"Sometimes. Usually by looking at the eyes and eyebrows."

"I can look at you and tell you're not American."

"...is that a bad thing?"

"No. You have more of a European nose and really fair skin. But your eyes aren't really European. More Russian, I'm assuming."

Dimitra shifted, and Bill followed her gaze to see Jeff walking their way. "My mom was part Siberian. They had thinner eyes," she said before standing.