Kari
Quiet, still, serene. She sits across from me in her office, hands folded in her lap and legs crossed. She’s regal, elegantly long and delicate. Her legs are long, her arms are long, her hands are long, her hair is long. When she’s onto something deep and important she runs her fingers through the white-blonde strands, pulling it up and away from her forehead in one swoop. Her expression is impossible to read, years of experience keeps her mouth and eyes cool and impassive. Nothing I say can ever shock her, there’s never a raised eyebrow or bitten lip that suggests I’ve affected her. But sometimes, every once in a while, my jokes can make her burst out into uninhibited laughter that opens her face- just for a moment- before she regains her queenly composure. I’m intimately acquainted with her legs and feet- I’ve stared at them for an hour every Friday afternoon for the past four years. I direct my monologues at her toes, unable to meet her eyes when I’m speaking. Those toes have heard my deepest, darkest, ugliest secret thoughts, but I have yet to see them recoil in horror at the inner workings of my mind. They rest there at the tips of her shoes, motionless and relaxed, receiving the most shameful and embarrassing parts of me. Tiny, inconsequential comments I direct to the little toes, the ones that look the most immature and insubstantial. I could never give these baby toes anything dark and important. But the terrible things, the giant and wild and frightening things, I tell those to her big toes. Solid and pretty and lacquered in red polish, I trust these toes. And when I’m done speaking, when I’ve unloaded it all, I let my gaze drift upwards, finally connecting with the green of her eyes and a softness around the corners that I’ve come to understand as her way of telling me that I matter.
Bill
He’s not a tall man, slight in stature but strong and rough, his skin weathered from years of working outdoors. His hair is thin but healthy, almost always pulled back into a sleek ponytail. When he wants to look nice he wears it loose and it flows in soft peppery waves behind his ears and past his shoulders. On those days he also shaves his stubble so cleanly that his cheeks look soft and pink, an endearing contrast with the tough and crinkled spaces between his eyes and temples. A pair of brittle glasses are perched low on his nose, the lenses smeared so thickly with grime that it must be impossible to see through them clearly. He refuses to wipe them clean because if they’re held too tightly the left lens never fails to pop out. He swears like a sailor but every once in a while he says something so soft and honest that it breaks your heart. His speech is thick and muffled from the wad in his cheek- not of tobacco, but a generous handful of sunflower seeds. He sits at the meetings methodically shelling each seed, spitting the empty husk into his palm and lining them up, soft and soggy, on the table in front of him. On his wrist he wears a piece of chain he found on a pallet at work. He’s added a special link that opens and closes so he can take it off whenever he needs to and sometimes he’ll remove the bracelet and lay it across his knee, as if his arm needs a break. If you touch it the metal is warm from his body heat. His wardrobe consists of threadbare t-shirts and ill-fitting jeans that sag and bunch in all the wrong places. His shirt today is black, with faded white writing on the front that says “Keep staring. I might do a trick.” He acts tough and horribly masculine, but he’d go to the ends of the earth to protect his grandbabies. He’d give a stranger his last dollar. He always cries when he talks about his friends.
Christie
She bubbles. The air around her hums and buzzes with the most intoxicating, effervescent energy. Her blonde hair is thick and slightly curly, and when she wears it down it bounces just above her shoulders. Her face is round and open, always holding an expression of warmth and gentle understanding. Her pink lips purse ever so slightly, bow-like, when she’s thinking hard about something. Nestled in the soft space between her bottom lip and her small pointed chin is a pencil-thin white scar- a reminder of an unfortunate collision with a swing at age two. Her shoulders are strong and square; they’re no-nonsense, teacher shoulders. I can imagine her staring down a rowdy ten year old, hands on her hips and shoulders thrown back in a way that means trouble. The strength in her upper body offsets the gentle curves of her breasts and hips so prettily, giving her an overall air of carefree femininity. She could scramble up the face of a mountain or slink by in an cocktail dress with equal success. She’s smart- quick-witted with a clever sense of humor. She can guide any conversation with her effortless charm and ready smile. If you can make her laugh you feel like she’s given you something special. A delightful, fizzy gift you can roll up and place in your breast pocket so that it rests against your heart in that private place you reserve for lovers, mothers, and best friends.
