“You’re not drawing me,” W says. She says it in an innocent way with her eyes wide and bright and a bit of a grin starting on one side of her face. She says it as if she’s daring me to sketch her there in the June sunlight.
I’m sitting on a folding chair with my little red Moleskine notebook and my silver astronaut pen. I’m pretending to sketch her as she sits on a folding chair across from me.
“Of course I’m not drawing you,” I say. “I’m a writer, not a drawer.”
“Draw me with words,” she says.
“Okay,” I say.
We are at a yoga/wellness festival with our prayer flag for Orlando.
“You’ll love it,” I had told her. “You’ll feel at home with all the other hippies.”
“Maybe I’ll go full-on hippie on you some day. With dreadlocks, the whole deal.”
She says it like it’s a deal breaker. Like I will stop loving her with dreadlocks and bare feet that peek out from the bottom of her flowy tie-dye skirts. Like I will stop loving her with hairy legs and armpits and the scent of patchouli following behind her like a puppy.
“Don’t you know I don’t love you because of your hair?” I say.
What I don’t tell her is that I love her hair. The way it is long and brown with a few strands of silver that look like they were sliced from the moon.
It is the best part of her. The outside part that shows her inside light.
I don’t tell her I know her secret: Her heart is the moon. That’s why she has moonbeam hair.
Instead, I tell her I don’t love her because of her hair.