but all she wanted was t-
“Oh yeah no … hey wait a bit!”
Arm. Thick arm. Arm of Strange Cutie
Whose Face She Slammed In Her Door Last Week.
She'd been walking away, but now she
turned back toward him.
Inches from her face.
He paused, and looked at her oddly. For a
moment, she thought he was going to say something sad, like he was going to cry, or make her cry
or tell her something that was going to hurt. Then
his face lit up, big and bright and happy and beautiful.
Turn around Phills go the other way don't
you look at me don't look at me don't look at m“Oh! Hey!! You’re the girl who didn't like
organization!” -e you peppy idiot
He seemed very excited to see her.
“You’re welcome.”
“I was meaning to ask you, what about organization do you not like? The structure, the perceived lack of freedom, the effort, because for lack
of freedom, you have things like sonnets whe...”
She almost smiled. Then she ran off and
hid, the warm feeling in her chest lasting and
lasting and lasting and keeping her alive.
Phills turned and placed her forehead on
the cold, stone wall, while Enthusiastic Stranger
continued his monologue.
It wasn't till the end of the school year that
she saw him again. And then it wasn't even him,
just his picture next to a display of panel art with
the captions “Ben Lenowel, RIP.” In the explanation area, he didn't expound on symbolism and
colors and lines, but on his process. His step by
step, organized, plan. He made it sound simple,
like anyone could make pretty things. How he had
started, following his self-imposed rules and structure, and continued and continued and the art got
deeper and deeper and more and more beautiful.
“..... also, what what’s your name?”
Hhhnnnngggggggg just go awaaayyyy
“Um… are you ok? … Hi? Can I get you anything?
The school bell rang.
“I'm Phills. Organization is too much work
and turns humans into machines.”
She ducked under his arm and walked toward freedom, her sketchbook, and the sofa.
The thing was, the art its self didn't need
an explanation. It made sense. It was clean an Oh.
It’s for me. He was gonna tell me but he
A week later he almost crushed her again.
didn't.
“Phills! … Hi! ... Sorry, I almost smushed
you, but um, you, dropped this last week and
*huff * I haven’t seen, you since *pant * and
here.”
Yup, there, it says right, there, 'For Phills.'
I should try his thingy. It turned out well....
He handed her a blue scarf with her name
on it. He was breathing heavily, and the cold air
was making his nose run.
“Breathing is good, child,” she muttered to
his collar bone. “And um,” come on Phills this one
of the few Actual Humans in this world be nice.
“Thanks.”
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