Her name is Lucy
Lucy wears black clothes. Black socks, black miniskirts, black over-sized shirts, black kitten heels. She is thin as a stick, like starved kids in photos. It’s almost disturbing to watch her cheekbones as she speaks, see her collarbones stinging your eyes when she wears black shirts with wider neckline. When we were in same school I used to watch her. Every time I saw her I felt weird, like a frigid snowball was thrust into my stomach and I could feel my own body shaping like hers and feeling weaker. Until one day we met.
I had signed up on an art course that lasted 2 days. It was a Saturday and I came there all alone. Air outside was damp and chill. Ground was still wet of the rain that had fallen just minutes ago. The kind of weather that makes you want to stay under a blanket and drink hot tea. I noticed her immediately as I entered the building. She had a thick sweater, black as always. She looked like she was freezing holding her tiny arms around her. Her hands were drowning in too long sleeves. When we later went to the classroom I sat on the table that still had space left. She sat on the same table. The room was quite small and I felt how our breaths warmed up the air, making it thick. The teacher said:”Today your task is to draw yourself”. Use crayons to draw a picture that reflects you.”I had no inspiration. It is absolutely the worst when you should be creative and your brains are just empty.
I was staring at the clock on the wall as I heard Lucy’s voice speaking to me:” Not getting any ideas, huh?” Her voice was kind and high-pitched like a child’s, yet there was nothing childish about it. Her voice sounded old. It had gone through all the pain and misery in the world. “Yeah, I can’t get an inspiration.””That really sucks. I had a time like that but nowadays I get ideas all the time.” I smiled at her and asked:”What are you drawing?” “Me.”She said perky and cheery. “Can I take a look?” I asked. She gave her paper to me and said:”Okay but I’m just sketching” “Wow” I said. The picture looked like a photo. Every line was perfect and clean. It looked like her but same time it did not. In her picture I couldn’t see any bones sticking out. Her cheeks were round and legs shorter and thicker. The face bothered me with its sad expression. Lips curved downwards and eyes sad like she was about to cry. “How long have you been drawing?”I asked. “For eternity, I’m not really good but I want to practice so someday I will be perfect. Perfect” She said.
We kept talking. I talked about everything… well or almost. She told me she lives with her mom in a high-rise building. Her parents are divorced. She told me her room is always tidy, decorated with white and black. She doesn’t like disorder. She doesn’t have any hobbies nor brothers or sisters. She told me her favorite bands and movies. All that stuff people talk about. We never spoke about food though.
When the dinnertime came around everybody (or almost everybody) rushed to the kitchen because everyone had brought food that needed to be heated in a micro-wave oven. She didn’t so she went straight to the table with her supply. The kitchen was colder than the classroom. Humming sound of the refrigerator and micro-wave oven hummed incessantly. Walls were Plymouth Rock grey. When I got my food heated I went to sit on her table. I couldn’t help having a look what she was eating: salad, onions and cottage cheese. There were other students in the same table and I noticed that they all were staring at her as she ate. Some of them gazed openly and some peeked so they wouldn’t be noticed. I felt bad for her. If she doesn’t feel comfortable with eating, how does it make it easier that a bunch of people is gazing at her like she was a monkey in a zoo?
I broke the awkward silence:”Tea would sure taste good now.” She turned to face me and said delighted expression on her face:”Absolutely. I love tea. I drink it all the time.”” Me too, I have probably ten different kinds of tea at home” I said now truly happier. She didn’t hurry. She ate her food with respect like it was the last piece of food on the planet Earth. When she ate, she kept horrible sound crunching onions like wood was chopped with axe. I didn’t care. I ate with her and I wanted her to feel comfortable, so we spoke about tea for a long time.