necessity drove me there that evening.
she sat cross-legged by the lake, silhouette sharp against dying light. words fell from her like traffic signals - mundane but vital.
i noticed her face first, then something deeper. she wore sadness like fifth avenue girls wear designer bags. blue eyes, ski-slope nose, red lips.
those lips moved and the lecture hall hummed. something about behaviorism. i remember the murmurs more than the words.
now here she was again, perched beside our sad excuse for a lake. the administration called it a water feature and demanded tetanus shots from swimmers. still, winter evenings painted it kind.
january wind gnawed her nose raw. she ignored it, wrestling with an obstinate cigarette. a book lay docile across her legs. too dark to read, i thought.
my chest swelled. i swallowed it down and walked over. she looked up, searching, as i claimed the other half of her concrete bench. headlight eyes hit me and my name evaporated.
"hi," she chirped, unaware she'd stolen my vocabulary.
her nose crinkled when she spoke - the way all noses should, really.
"you look cold," i managed, offering my jacket like a peace treaty.
she laughed.
"sure, why not," she shrugged. "i'm olivia. do you usually clothe strange girls?"
"are you strange?"
devastation crossed her face in a smirk. auburn strands danced as she tilted left, puppylike. i surrendered my jacket in mute defeat.
"thank you..." she trailed off, burrowing into wool.
"edward!" i blurted, suddenly fond of my own name.
"how fancy," she mocked in exaggerated london tones.
"irish actually," i corrected, half-serious.
her eyes wandered my face, scattering coherent thoughts. french heritage, she explained. parents fled some war, opened a bakery in england, clung to their accents like lifelines.
"so why are you here?" i asked.
"it's only six, edward. why is anyone here?"
she dragged deep, studied me through smoke.
"i mean in scotland - that's poison, you know," i nodded at her cigarette.
mother's voice echoed: "don't you dare start smoking!" through memories of coughs and plumes. winter took her in the end.
olivia exhaled slowly. smoke hung between us before surrendering to wind.
"half of living seems poison these days," she mused, eyebrows climbing.
those brows - thick, lazy things - conducted whole symphonies of expression. before i could parse this one, she jolted upright.
"it's all here!" she jabbed her book with the cigarette hand. ash rained onto L'Etranger.
i'd read camus in my vulnerable phase. whatever she saw there, i hadn't found it. but pretty girls get different truths from french philosophy. i kept quiet.
"french?"
smoke escaped her nose, pooling briefly on wool. my jacket was becoming an ashtray. i hadn't even seen her take another drag.
"english translation. my french is terrible," she admitted in perfect parisian tones.
"moi non plus. what brings you here?"
"i want to write."
"oh?" beauty and literature seemed improbable companions. "studying writing?"
"english and literature. before writing comes reading!" she bellowed, conducting invisible orchestras.
"you okay?"
"just channeling professor carraway. claims to know everything about writing. never published a word."
she snorted, arms windmilling. her cigarette found my cheek. apologetic chaos followed. i let it last.
assured her no harm done, though her presence had gravely wounded me.
laughter threw her head back, hair dancing in solidarity.
"i like you," she declared, as if noting gravity's existence.
"why are you here?" she leaned close, chin on palm.
dangerous proximity.
mother always said my brain lacked a filter. shame colors this memory, but honesty compels accuracy.
youth makes truth-tellers of us all.
jenny - olivia's roommate - told me years later over whiskey that my answer kept olivia talking. "i want to change the world," i said, dripping earnest.
eyebrows shot up. she gave me that vegetables-are-good look.
"i wanted that too, once. also wanted to be a dinosaur."
confusion must have shown.
"how were you going to do it?"
"practiced roaring daily. hadn't planned much beyond that." genuine regret tinged her voice.
"writing career backup plan?" she ignored me: "i thought i could write war away."
embarrassment crept in.
"you still might," i offered seriously.
"i don't think so. thought if words could start wars, they could end them," she stared past horizons, "doesn't work that way."
"maybe you change that too."
"naive," she smiled sad, grabbed my arm. "here." conjured a pen, wrote name and address on skin. i froze, protecting wet ink.
"visit after four, if you like. we'll drink coffee and discuss reality." hope and exhaustion mixed in her voice.
she stood, finished her cigarette, extended a formal hand. i shook automatically.
"lovely meeting you," then gone.
that night blurred except for stars lighting my long walk home.