A First Impression For 20 Years and More

I watched her walk into the house and sit down on the edge of the couch closest to the door. The almost-autumn, evening sun shone through a large window across her. Her short curly hair ended about level with her smile. She smiled when she talked and her eyes pinched shut as her cheeks rose with each grin. Talk was mostly about school starting again and the perils of sitting next to freaky people on the bus during her commute to the University. She griped like the others about conflicting work and school schedules. She worked at a bank. I listened intently as I was considering staying in Portland but to do what, I was unsure. I looked away or listened-in to other peoples conversation when she seemed aware of me. She wore a black and white striped T-shirt dress that was beatnik cool.

My friend Art introduced me as having just flown in from Belgium. That was mostly true as I had stayed in California for two weeks before deciding to take a trip north to visit family and see what Portland had to offer.

Summer was still in the air and the evening was warm. People mingled and ate bbq'd burgers and chips and drank soda. I sat comfortably listening and watching the girl with the curly dark hair regale story after story with a conviction and sense of telling that I had not ever before heard. Others talked about football or soccer practices. Discussions of the coming ski season, still nearly 3 months away.

 I didn't want to talk about sports. I didn't want to explain bike racing or my dilemma of deciding how interested I still was in wanting to be a bike racer. My internal debate after twelve-years of what it was worth to continue.  Could I bring myself to go another year in  Belgium like the one I had just been through? I needed to leave it alone. I needed to escape from myself. My conflict seemed black and white. There was no middle ground. I was tired. I was sick. I would find out just how tired and sick in the coming weeks.

But that evening, the girl in the black and white striped dress with the eyes that squinted shut as she beamed her infectious smile across the room, made the most mundane stories exciting. That was what I needed. She was vibrant and colorful. In spite of her contrasting dress. She was the embodiment of life's journey. I was a derailed train not making it's destination.

Then, without hesitation as others began to leave, she stood up, walked across the room toward me and put her hand out to shake mine. She spoke loudly as if I was deaf.

I'm Adrienne, do you speak English?

I thought for a moment.  I planned to stay for two-weeks. I knew enough Flemish to fake through two-weeks. I can't do that, I told myself. She's a nice girl.

Yeah, I speak English, I laughed. I grew up in California, that's where I knew Art.

She pulled her hand back. Her face turned pale. She turned and walked away. She wouldn't speak to me again for 5-months.