Mindy Halleck, 'The Frenchman'
First Place Adult Winner
First Place Adult Winner
This is what the 1970s sounded like to me; crying babies and screeching engines as my husband worked on cars with the constant refrain of Bruce Springsteen’s Born To Run album in the background. And my mother-in-law, next door, whose Elvis Presley music serenaded as she sobbed because Elvis had just died. And then there was the persistent rap, rap, rap on the door from optimistic evangelists telling me because of my life choices I had been denied entry into paradise . . . like I needed them to tell me that.
I was twenty-three, wore cut-offs and halter-tops, had waist length hair, a one year old, teething child, and was married to my high-school beau, a man who thought a Sunday drive to Scappoose Oregon for car parts, was travel. I was trapped in life, a captive in hell. Those young missionaries got that much right. All I wanted was good coffee, somewhere to sit in peace, write and dream of faraway places. But, in hell these treasures are hard to find. However, on Wednesdays my mother-in-law–who wore black moo-moos, in mourning for Elvis, babysat. So I escaped; no child, no husband, no grief-stricken Elvis fan, no cherub-faced disciples trying to save my soul, just me, my spirit free. My Volkswagen-bug was named ‘Medusa’ for the many bungee-cords holding her together. Like the real Medusa, who had snakes for hair, my car’s exterior had a belt attaching the bumper, a tail-light that dangled from a cord and flickered its fleeting life, and a back seat that plunged forward if not for those cables. Anyway, on Wednesdays Medusa and I chugged from Portland to Multnomah Falls in the Columbia Gorge, in search of solitude, coffee and dreams. My eight-track tape blared, Fleetwood Mac, Go Your Own Way, as I cruised, windows down, smoking a clove cigarette, leaving the noise behind and headed toward my kind of heaven. Ironically, my weekly journey to freedom was built by prisoners in the early 1900s, chain-gangs, no less. As I spiraled up the winding scenic highway I envisioned them working along the cliffs in their grey uniforms, shackled to one another, and I wondered, what crimes had they committed; had they murdered a lover, robbed a bank, or simply tried to escape a life that held no promise? At the falls, I hiked the switchback trails, zig-zagging alongside the rustling waters as they hustled down from the top of Larch Mountain, spilled over the cliff and flowed into the vast Columbia River. There amid meandering trails that leached moss, the sweet scent of wildflowers, and fresh misting air that greeted my skin, was a silent sanity. I stood on the foot-bridge over the cascading waters where legend holds that a young Indian maiden leapt to her death, giving her life to save her lover–the same place where Lewis and Clark journeyed out of the dark forest emerging at the top to discover a breathtaking view of their new world. There, I took in a deep breath of the mist of sacrifice, expedition and emancipation that had gone before, and wondered, which of those themes would rule my life? Then, I returned to the café, had espresso, sat by the window and wrote in peace. The Multnomah Falls Lodge was built in 1915, and though weary by the 1970s, still exuded a reserved elegance from another time, with tall ceilings, chandeliers and high back chairs. In the autumn especially, I’d hang out at the coffee shop because I would have it to myself, or sometimes even if full of sightseers I’d linger, because they made me feel like I, too, was traveling. The old French cook made strong Italian coffee and always sat with me for his ‘five’. We watched tourists below the window clamber to their cars when it rained. The Frenchman rolled and smoked his cigarette as if a virtue instead of a vice, and often said, “A pretty girl like you would love Paris.” So, I fantasized about Paris as he leaned back, rested his head on the wall-papered wall, closed his wrinkled eyes and reminisced about his tattoo of love birds, his pretty Italian girlfriend who left him for a German, and how all his tragic love affairs began on a park bench in Paris. As rain pinged against the windows, the smell of his spicy tobacco, taste of his robust coffee, and the rhythm of his deep accented voice cast a hypnotic spell. And as I watched day-trippers dash to their cars, knowing they were going somewhere else, in those transitory moments, I was free and somehow on a journey with them. Frenchman would douse his cigarette and say, “Ma Chérie, you are such a pretty girl. You should live a full life, not sit with an aging le chien, watching the rain.” |
Then he would pat my arm and return to work leaving me to sip from one of his tiny coffee cups that, back then, were exotic to me, and write. I jotted down some of his French words, hoping I may use them in Paris someday; French, ‘le chien’ in English, means dog.
It was my secret place, and he my secret friend whose name, these years later I don’t recollect, because I called him, simply, ‘Frenchman’. I do remember the marks on his arms which looked like my uncle’s–the marks of a heroin addict. Frenchman said they were once his guide through a long dark night. My uncle had been deeply depressed after Vietnam. He too, had a long dark night. The Frenchman’s weary voice was laced with regret, tainted by his lost loves, harsh from the cynicism of war, and only soothed by the luxurious bitterness of his rich coffees. His coffee was not what the café served, it was his blend, his small porcelain cups, and his special crème. “I wanted to be her angel,” He once said about his Italian lover, “But she wanted a hero. When I was sent to war, shot, and lost . . . she found her hero in another.” His war was World War II, and he said that seeing me sitting at the window with my long hair pulled over one shoulder, looking like his lost paramour, brought it all back to life. The waitress, whose apron pockets clanked with silverware, told me once that he seldom talked to anyone, and that I was the only one for whom he made that ‘special’ coffee. She said she thought he was crazy, and that with his bad temper matched only by his skill with knives, someday he might kill somebody. I worried more that, like my uncle, someday he might kill himself. I liked the Frenchman, so, in our sanctuary I drank his strong coffee and listened to a man who spun sorrow like mythic gold and who saw his past in my youthful image. His longing for a life not lived well, ached against those elegant walls of a time gone by. Wondering if I could end up like him; full of regret, unfulfilled dreams, angry at the world for decisions that in truth I had only myself to blame, horrified me. Then one day my husband spoke four dreadful words, “Let’s have another baby.” I immediately heard the Frenchman’s whispers, “Be free Ma Chérie” and knew those four innocent words disguised the sound of shackles. A suffocating panic swelled inside me. I took our daughter and left. After we settled into our small flat, and after I found a job, and a bungee-less car, one afternoon I took my little girl to see the waterfall, and my friend. It had been two months. The waitress who jangled from pocketed silverware sat with us. “Our Frenchman,” she said, “he disappeared one night . . . never seen ‘em again.” She went behind the counter and brought back a small box. “He’d want you to have these. You were the only one crazy enough to be his friend.” Inside was his coffee carafe and the two porcelain cups made in France. Emotion surged hard against my throat, “Thank you.” My eyes burned with a sudden, crushing understanding . . . . I wanted to believe he returned to Paris, but then I recalled the map of life deeply scared into his arms and realized my dark angel had journeyed back into his night. The next week I climbed to where the Indian maiden fell to her death, dropped flowers into the raging water and said, “Thank you, Frenchman, for showing me life is a journey that must be fully experienced. You’ve been my hero, my angel. Now rest. And I’ll go live that life you wanted for me, for us both. Sleep my dark angel, sleep.” *** Years later, accompanied by the love of my life, I returned one of those porcelain cups to a park bench in Paris. I kept the other. I think my Frenchman would have liked that. |
Second place adult winner: Doug Purcell with 'The Journey Begins Anew'
Sirens, the klaxon call of deepest dread,
Wake me from the womb,
Harsh breath of the plastic mask,
A man and woman, dressed in black,
Looking worn by the work and the night.
Her hands above me, pulling back
The paddles of electric life.
Shocked to breath by such technology,
My body seeks oxygen in great heaving gulps.
My blood begins to move again of its own accord.
The night races past outside the truck,
Lights of cars and stores and homes,
Evidence of people living on, in brief ignorance
Of their own mortality.
A gift ripped from me by this broken heart.
In a deep calm, I am aware of doors opening
and the gurney whooshing through the halls.
I am safe, amid medical miracles which predict survival.
But the journey, once so prescribed, will be different now.
I will not presume life, but seek desperately for what it means to be alive.
Wake me from the womb,
Harsh breath of the plastic mask,
A man and woman, dressed in black,
Looking worn by the work and the night.
Her hands above me, pulling back
The paddles of electric life.
Shocked to breath by such technology,
My body seeks oxygen in great heaving gulps.
My blood begins to move again of its own accord.
The night races past outside the truck,
Lights of cars and stores and homes,
Evidence of people living on, in brief ignorance
Of their own mortality.
A gift ripped from me by this broken heart.
In a deep calm, I am aware of doors opening
and the gurney whooshing through the halls.
I am safe, amid medical miracles which predict survival.
But the journey, once so prescribed, will be different now.
I will not presume life, but seek desperately for what it means to be alive.
Joanne Peterson for 'Sky Harbor'
Third Place Winner
Third Place Winner
The 11a.m flight from Sky Harbor Airport to Seattle-Tacoma departs in two hours. Early to arrive at airports anytime I fly, I look forward to a couple of hours to unwind a bit before I board my Alaska Air flight. I’ll find a place to sit and have coffee, read and people-watch until time to board. Airport activity intrigues me. Initially, I am distracted by the hurried and harried passengers, the blare of indecipherable announcements, the cries of babies and the smell of food and coffee. I don’t have to remind myself why I am flying alone out of Phoenix this sunny morning: Soon I’ll be out of reach of routine and responsibility for an entire month.
Spending a month alone in a cabin on a beach in the Pacific Northwest holds as much promise as a month in Hawaii. More, actually, as I am leaving Phoenix with its day-after-day sunshine. Would I choose another sunny place? Not likely. Not when I haven’t been in Washington for several months. Do I miss the cool dampness, occasional morning fog and foghorns, rainy days, evergreens in place of palm trees? I do. A beloved aunt who moved to Scottsdale from Seattle once told me that if ever I moved permanently to Arizona, I would forever be lonely--for Washington. I’m sure she was right. Lately, I’ve lived in a fantasy world of imaginings: What will it be like at this beach cabin I’ve never seen? How will the days begin and end? First, coffee on the deck. A muffin and juice. The salt-smell and sounds of sea birds my constant companions. Each day an exceptional and unfamiliar gift. I can only guess how I’ll spend my days. A walk along the low-tide shoreline, negotiating rocks bearded with wet sea-moss. A sandwich on the deck at noon, listening to the waves splash on the beach. A glass of wine at sunset. Soup simmering on the small stovetop. The ten-mile drive to Safeway every now and then for groceries and a post office visit. A stack of books I’ll never get through in a month but will treasure seeing on a cabin shelf awaiting my selection. Writing. Sleeping. Dreaming. Awaking to the sound of the tide against the concrete foundation of the cabin. This cabin, I learn, is on the edge of the beach. Twice a day the tide climbs the stairs along the foundation! I’ll sit up in bed in the morning, look through the loft window to the water and see the gulls dipping and wheeling before me in private performance. Oh, my. My pulse rate must be closing in on a hundred as I walk toward the security line at the airport. Traveling alone excites and unnerves me, in equal measure. Being on my own doesn’t come naturally, so it’s no wonder if I am anxious. The word giddy comes to mind. I can’t prevent myself from looking ahead to my four weeks alone in that cabin. I’ve been thinking of little else, night and day, counting the days for a long time now. The logistics of getting there haven’t seemed to be an obstacle. Who wouldn’t be eager to get to the place, rented from a stranger over the telephone? I envision a ferry ride, my drive in a borrowed car, my approach to the property! I’ll park in the carport, step up to the deck, approach the front door and—finally, finally-- enter! Imagine! I’ll walk through the cabin, climb the wooden stairs to check out my bedroom and its view of the water. Downstairs again, I’ll tour the tiny bathroom, stand in the kitchen just right for one person. I’ll be breathless with wonder, I’d guess. I’ll unload the car and put away the single bag of groceries from Safeway. Perhaps I’ll wait a day to unpack my laptop computer and set up an office at the dining table, facing toward the double sliding doors overlooking the beach and sky. I’ll make a note to buy flowers and fire logs when next I go to town. Sigh. I can hardly wait. I’ve built quite a picture of the cabin, based on what the landlord told me over the phone. Will it be amazing? Will it be disappointing? How could it possibly be disappointing? |
I force my mind back to Sky Harbor, make my way smoothly through security, settle the strap of my computer case over one shoulder and my purse over the other and set out toward Gate 10. I feel fine and tough, independent and free. I opt for the stairs between two escalators and climb them quickly. People who step on the escalator as I hit the stairs are far behind me when I get to the top. Down the lengthy concourse, around the corner to the left, I find Gate 10, buy a Starbucks coffee and settle into a chair for my wait.
As I sip my coffee, I absently consume the two small bagels I stuffed in a bag on my way out of the house and pick up a USA Today someone conveniently left on the black vinyl seat. Planes outside the windows taxi and rev and roar into the Arizona sky. I read USA today, drink my coffee, and let my curiosity take over. I glance at people around me and indulge myself in conjecture. Where are they going? Are they happy? Sad? It’s difficult to ignore the fact that directly across the aisle, facing me, are people who probably will be sitting there for the next hour and a half, perhaps getting on the same flight to Seattle. I think not everyone agrees with this premise, but I figure if strangers don’t want someone to overhear them in crowded places, they should keep their voices down. The woman seated across from me, perhaps in her mid-50s, wears tinted glasses with crystal-embedded rims--and quite a lot of make-up. Her lips are very red, as is the smudge on her Starbucks cup, and her hair is dark. I don’t notice her clothing. Unfortunately, her most distinguishing characteristic is her sharp-edged voice, which makes my teeth hurt. She appears focused on preventing her male companion from starting—or at least from finishing--a sentence. They appear to be married, as she wears a substantial diamond-studded platinum band, and he wears a narrow, plainer version. She’s practiced her routine of interrupting the man and is good at it. In fairness, he presumably has practiced the routine with her. The woman has a number of ailments and provides him with a commentary on them: The scrape on her arm, she thinks, might be infected. She still has that annoying sore throat. Her left shoe causes her heel to hurt. The man sits slanted toward her, watching her talk. He opens his mouth. Closes it. She continues. She does not understand why her eyes are troubling her. Some allergy, she supposes, most bothersome. He begins to tell her something about the rental car awaiting them in Seattle. She interrupts to say she did not sleep at all last night. Not at all. Her husband straightens in his chair, catches my eye, half shrugs, looks away. She says she can’t understand how the plane can leave on time when it isn’t even at the gate yet. He opens his mouth to speak. She goes on. I hear his teeth click together. Perhaps the pleasant-looking man gives the self-centered woman such power over his day, probably his life, because of some legitimate circumstance. As if she senses my irritation, she looks at me, a glance sharp as a dagger piercing the tinted glasses. The man glances at me again as I drain the cold coffee, crumple the cup, and stand up. I fold the newspaper and hand it to him. He has a nice smile, I think, and it’s a pity she doesn’t let him talk. I nod at both of them, say, “Have a good flight,” and sling my purse and computer over my shoulder. The woman’s vivid mouth turns down at the corners. I walk up and down the concourse, shaking off the small tragedy of the woman and the man—whose privacy I shamelessly invaded. Then I tune into the quick beating of my heart, my indescribable exhilaration. I am on my way, headed for the cabin on the beach. Soon I’ll be living my four-week adventure, alone, not lonely. I turn and head back toward Gate 10 as my row is called for boarding. I do not see the couple again. It occurs to me, fleetingly, that perhaps when he picks up the rental car, he will get in it and drive away alone. |
Lauren Madison for 'Outlast the Ages'
Youth First Place Winner
Youth First Place Winner
And I can't look you in the eyes
The weight of society drags my irises to your feet
But your gentle fingers press on the divot beneath my chin
And I swear you stoop to meet me because there is no way I could have traveled the path of your body in such a short time but
That doesn't matter when your hair kisses my cheeks and you draw me closer
And I am shy but my eyes are filled with love for you
With hate for myself for not being strong enough to face you
I heft the weight of foreign hatred on my hunched shoulders
But when my spine is straightened the weight crashes to the floor and I meet you for the last time
I look into your brilliant eyes and you turn me to stone
And centuries from now when my gently curling hair has chipped at the ends and my chest is cracked and flaking
Your slender fingers will trace the line of my jaw
And even in stone you will see worlds in my eyes, ones I built for us together
And you will touch another girl’s cheeks, but never in the same way again
Someday you will live in a world full of completely different people
You won't remember my name as I sit, a sliver in your palm
And the crack running diagonally from the crown of my head to my caving chest will have filled with your favorite flowers
And broken the pupils you once admired so
But my eyes, blind and broken in missing you when you are just an arm’s length away, will continue to love you
Even when the heartbreak of past (or maybe future) lovers cleaves through your throat and stoppers your breath
Even after your wicked gaze rests parallel to the pedestal they placed me on so many years ago, I will love you
And forever after our eyes lock
And travel to that utopia I promised you lifetimes ago
We may be frozen in time
But, my love, we will outlast the ages
And our history will be known throughout this meager earth
By the love in our stone cold eyes
The weight of society drags my irises to your feet
But your gentle fingers press on the divot beneath my chin
And I swear you stoop to meet me because there is no way I could have traveled the path of your body in such a short time but
That doesn't matter when your hair kisses my cheeks and you draw me closer
And I am shy but my eyes are filled with love for you
With hate for myself for not being strong enough to face you
I heft the weight of foreign hatred on my hunched shoulders
But when my spine is straightened the weight crashes to the floor and I meet you for the last time
I look into your brilliant eyes and you turn me to stone
And centuries from now when my gently curling hair has chipped at the ends and my chest is cracked and flaking
Your slender fingers will trace the line of my jaw
And even in stone you will see worlds in my eyes, ones I built for us together
And you will touch another girl’s cheeks, but never in the same way again
Someday you will live in a world full of completely different people
You won't remember my name as I sit, a sliver in your palm
And the crack running diagonally from the crown of my head to my caving chest will have filled with your favorite flowers
And broken the pupils you once admired so
But my eyes, blind and broken in missing you when you are just an arm’s length away, will continue to love you
Even when the heartbreak of past (or maybe future) lovers cleaves through your throat and stoppers your breath
Even after your wicked gaze rests parallel to the pedestal they placed me on so many years ago, I will love you
And forever after our eyes lock
And travel to that utopia I promised you lifetimes ago
We may be frozen in time
But, my love, we will outlast the ages
And our history will be known throughout this meager earth
By the love in our stone cold eyes
Kenny Nguyen for 'Love at First Sight'
Youth Second Place Winner
Youth Second Place Winner
It was that time of the year again—love was in the air, roses and chocolates littered the store shelves, people were holding hands throughout the hallway, and the rest of that lovey-dovey crap—all in preparation for some stupid holiday. And then, there was me: a scrawny, acne-ridden, brace-face nerd, who daydreams about Valentine’s Day during class. What a loser.
As the bell rang, snapping me out of my thoughts, I noticed a girl sitting across from me. Did we receive a new student halfway through the year? Or has she been in my class the whole time? No, wait, that couldn’t be possible... there is no way I didn’t notice someone this gorgeous before. There was something special about her, something unique that mesmerized me. Maybe it was the way she softly ran her fingers through her lush dark hair or the way that it flowed perfectly in soft waves, framing her lovely face. It could’ve been the large, purple glasses perched on her nose that brought out her warm, brown eyes. Or the way she giggled aloud, flashing her stunning smile. Maybe it was the way she swung her legs like a pendulum—back and forth and back and forth—because her legs were too short to touch the ground. I couldn’t figure out what made her so enchanting, but whatever it was, it kept me entranced until the bell that signaled lunch rang. As we filed out of the classroom, my best friend Jason punched me on the shoulder while falling into step with me on the way to the cafeteria. “I see you Kenny, I see you,” Jason says as he looks at me with a smirk. “Uhhh… What are you talking about?” I reply, confused. “Oh come on, you know exactly what I’m talking about. I saw the way you were checking out Aileena.” “Aileena?” “Yeah, the girl who sits across from you. She got switched into our class for second semester.” “Oh, her? I wasn’t ‘checking her out’ I just didn’t notice her before so I just, you know, quickly glanced at her, that’s all.” “Yeah right. When did the definition of ‘quickly glanced’ change to ‘stared at her for the whole class period’? Plus, you had that stupid-looking grin you always have on your face when you find a girl cute,” Jason says as he imitates the so-called “stupid-looking grin.” “Shut up. Fine, so maybe I find her a little cute,” I admit. “So what?” “Dude, you should go talk to her!” Laughing as I sit down to eat, “Me? Talk to a girl? You’re joking right?” “Nope, I’m dead serious. You always crush on girls but never do anything about it.” “That's because I’m so awkward! I couldn’t talk to a girl to save my life.” “I got you bro, my advice is—” “Wait... advice? From you? Are you kidding me? You’ve had more failed relationships than Taylor Swift! Why would I want advice from you?” “Please, we both know I’m a balla' at picking up chicks. I can have any girl begging for me at the snap of my fingers,” he says, egotistically. “I just get bored of them quickly.” "Alright, alright. What should I do?" Jason stands up and glances around, sitting back down with a smile. "It's your lucky day. Right now she's by herself so she’s real easy. Go talk to her!" Getting a bit annoyed, I reply, “Come on man, haven’t you heard anything I said? I can’t just walk up to her! I’ll look completely stupid! I’m going to get really nervous, I won’t be able to think, I’ll just say the first thing that comes to mind… it’ll be a total train wreck.” “Brahhh, I’ll give you a few of my pick up lines. They work 100% of the time. Here, how about... ‘Hey baby, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?’ ” “No way, that’s stupid and cliché. Nope. Not happening." |
“Fine, how about... ‘I thought happiness started with an H, so why does mine start with U?’ You have to admit bro, that one’s pretty good.”
“I mean… it’s better than the last one, but I still don’t see how you got any girls with those cheesy lines.” “Dude, girls are easy as hell to pick up! Just say something cute or compliment them and they’ll be sitting in your lap in no time. Actually, now that I think about it... it might not be my pick up lines that gets me all the ladies. It’s just my god damn beautiful face. Too bad you don’t have one as good as mine. Maybe you should just go old school and introduce yourself, I hear that’s how the people without amazing looks do it.” “Wow, aren’t you humble,” I roll my eyes. “I still don’t think I can do it.” “Don’t be a coward, be a man!” Feeling the pressure, I hesitantly stood up and began walking towards her. Okay, you can do this Kenny! But I couldn’t. My body seemed frozen. Beads of sweat slowly dripped down my forehead as my heart pounded fiercely against my chest, desperately trying to escape. Just relax and take a deep breath in. And out. You’re almost there, what’s the worst that could happen? I inch closer to her, my mind full of doubt. Oh god, she’s so pretty! She’s not going to want to talk to someone like me. She can probably get any guy she wants, why would should waste her time with me? At this point, I was only a few feet away from her but I just couldn’t go up and talk to her. No, instead I was considering backing out. Do I even look okay? Is my hair fine? I subtly fix my hair, making sure it's perfect. My breath? I breathe into my hand, checking if it smells okay. What’s the point of even talking to her? I should probably just leave. But I have nothing to lose. What if she actually does talk to me. I should probably just go for it. But maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should. Should I? Should I not? As I stand there arguing with myself, probably looking like a complete doofus, she notices me and places her book down to greet me. “Hey...” she said a little uncertainly, but with a gracious smile. “Oh uhh,” I look behind me but no one’s there. Crap, she’s actually talking to me. I feel an uncontrollable heat rush to my face, flushing my cheeks bright pink. What do I say? What was the first step again? Introduce myself? “Hi there, uhhhh—my name’s Kenny.” “Nice to meet you. I’m Aileena.” Shoot, what do I say now? Okay, calm down Kenny. Think; what would Jason do here? He’d probably say something like ‘Oh, I just wanted to give a beautiful girl like you some company.’ What about that? Is it too forward? Screw it, I’m going for it. “I just came to...ummm, uh… sit down! Er, with you or something like that. You can still like read if you want—I don’t want to like, I don’t know, uh, bother you?” What the hell was that, mouth?! We had a clear-cut plan and you messed it up! Ugh! She’s probably going to think I’m an idiot and stop talking to me. But she doesn’t. Instead she giggles at me. “Sure, you can sit down. Is there something wrong? You seem really nervous.” She didn’t tell me to go away? Jason was right—this really is my lucky day! Shoot, I’m taking too long to answer. What do I say? “Well, to be honest, it’s just that you’re really... uh, you know. I mean not in a bad way, wrong in a good way—wait what?” Oh god, I was right! This is such a mess; she’s just sitting there giggling. What should I do? I look over to Jason for some moral support but all I see is him on the floor, tears rolling down his face from laughter. What a great friend he is. I guess I’ll just have to resort to saying whatever comes to my head. “Um, never mind. So how has your day been?" "My day's been really good. This morning I—" Is this real life? Is this actually happening? I swear I could die right now and I’d still be happy. I’ve never talked with such a beautiful girl. She did these endearing things when she talked, like rest her pretty face on her tiny, yet adorable hand. Or fix her hair even though I thought it was perfect the way it was. Every time she giggled, I couldn’t help but smile at how cute she is. There was something, something about her that caused butterflies to flutter in my stomach and my heart to race. I never did believe in love at first sight. I guess, sometimes... it’s okay to be wrong. |