I saw her at a bar, she was dancing with her mates, three of them in a group. Later I was outside having a cigarette and she came out and stood, rubbing her arms in the cold air. She asked for a light and we got talking. Usual stuff, books, movies etc.. She told me that she had a skateboard and I told her how I liked to photograph feet. She laughed and asked if I had a foot fetish and I answered seriously, telling her how undervalued feet are, how overworked and stressed. I told her how I would look at pictures of celebrities and examine their stressed feet in hight heels in comparison to their painted smiles. I looked at her face, she had a teasing look and I felt stupid for being so serious. "Maybe just a little fetish?" I grinned " maybe".
She was cold and leaving, so I walked her home. At her gate she pulled me towards her, two hands grasping my collar. I shyly followed her inside and we fucked for two hours. In the morning, I woke first and looked around, confused at where I was. She had an antique vase filled with dried roses, transparent purple beads hanging over her lamp and yellow and white polka dot curtains. I looked at her bare back. She had a tattoo of Betty Boop on one shoulder and her her back was long and brown, beautiful.
She woke and made me coffee, bitter and black. I got her number.
I thought about her all that day, but didn't call. The next day I felt shy, did she want to see me again? She'd given me her number in an offhand way. I analysed how she acted that morning, my thoughts moving forward and backward like chickens pecking corn. The next day I plucked up courage and called. No reply.
I tried again that evening and got an older voice, shaky.
"Hello?"
" Um.. hi..is Shelley there?"
The other person broke down in tears.
"She's gone"
"Gone?"
"She died in a car accident last night."
I put the phone down. I felt shattered.
The funeral was Saturday. I went, I don't know why. I guess I was curious, this girl I knew but never knew.
I recognised her mother instantly. Her face was the same, that sharp nose and fuller lower lip. She stood, speaking about Shelley's childhood, her buoyancy and laughter. Her nose was red and the tears streamed down her face. Her friends stood up and shared exploits with laughter and tears. She was talented, had a way to make people open up to her. She had dreams of travel to Spain and Portugal. I could picture her there, sipping a small coffee at a cafe, smoking a cigarette and watching the unfamiliar world pass by. She would write on postcards with pictures of Gaudi and Picasso on the front. She would write about walking down tight alleyways and looking up at the lines of washing overhead. She would drink too much sangria and dance in a square with a fountain under strings of white lights. I put myself in the picture, dancing with her, taking photos of her amongst ruins and trees. We would be together so far away.
I was overwhelmed with what might have been. And I bawled like a lover, a husband, a friend with the rest of the people in that little church, on a bright day and felt close to her.
