Page 3 of Sad Girl Hours
“You know, that’s an excellent point.” Saffron laughs. “No one’s ever suggested that before. Thank you, Nell.”
How does she make everyone feel so goddamnspecialall the time? She’s like some kind of shapeshifting fae, but instead of causing chaos, she just boosts people’s self-esteem before bouncing back to the woods.
A thought pops up in the forefront of my brain:Does anyone make her feel special too?
“So, what’s the deal then,” I start – I want to hear her talk about herself – “with you and space? I’ve seen your TikToks. You’re clearly bonkers for the cosmos.”
“Bonkers for the cosmos,” she repeats, laughing a little. “Also, I can’t believe you’ve seen my TikToks. That’s embarrassing.”
She pulls a face like she doesn’t a) willingly put these videos online for people to see, and b) that she doesn’t know she comes across as perfectly articulate and passionate. Not to mention that she looks incredible in every single one, even adding little notes about where her clothes are from – all secondhand, thrifted or home-made, of course, because, as well as being intelligent and beautiful, she also cares about the freaking planet.
“Come on,” I say aloud. “They’re all amazing – it’s not embarrassing. And you put them out there. I just innocently stumbled across them … when Jenna showed me your page.”
“Of course she did.” Saffron shakes her head. “And I know I do, and I do want people to see my stuff and learn cool things about what’s out there.” She nods her head skywards again and I feel small –tinyeven – in a really cool way. “I want to be seen but I don’t want to beperceived.”
My laugh is visible, condensing in a cloud in the cold air. “Valid. And weirdly poetic.”
“Ah, yes,” she says with a teasing lilt. “I almost forgot we have a poet in our midst. Jenna’s been telling me all about her amazing poet friend.”
“Oh, Roger? Yeah, his sonnets are out of this world.” I glance at her sideways, half a smile working up my face. “Little space pun for you.”
Her golden waves bob around gracefully as she shakes her head at me. “Thank you. And no, not this mysterious Roger fellow, though I’m sure he’s also excellent.You. She’s told me all about you and how you’re going to take over the world one haiku at a time. She’s been in proper wingwoman mode.”
My trusty right eyebrow quirks up.
“Oh,” she says quickly, realising the implication. “For us to be friends, I mean. Not like that.”
It’s the first time she’s made me feel not so special.
But she seems to realise this as I do. “Not that I wouldn’t date you.”
I keep looking at her, slightly bemused, slightly obsessed with her.
“I mean, I wouldn’t,” she rambles, “but not because of you. You seem great. I just don’t date. Anyone. Not any more. Not even beautiful poets.”
“Right,” I say. “I didn’t ask, but good to know.”
My smile has an impish edge to it to reassure her that I’m not offended, even though I’m now maddeningly curious as towhyshe doesn’t dateany moreand also how she can have the audacity to tell me I’m beautiful as she’s rejecting me. Although is it a rejection if I literally didn’t ask? I don’t even know if Iwoulddate her. I don’t know her. I’d like to, but I don’t.
That reminds me…
“You never answered my question, by the way.”
The vague hint of tension gathered around her eyes (green, I notice) fades at the change of subject. “What question? Oh,” she says as she remembers. “What makes mebonkers for the cosmos?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t know,” she says breezily. “What makes you bonkers for poetry?”
I fold my arms across my chest. Partly to make a point, partly because it’s socold. “You first.”
“I don’t know…” Her voice trails off as she looks up, up,up. “I guess I just… I like—”
I never find out what it is she likes, however, as a riotous boom of noise emits from inside the building and the countdown begins.
“TEN, NINE, EIGHT…”
I shrug at Saffron. “The pretend New Year looms. What’d you reckon? Want to do this all again for another year?”
