Author's Note: Someone told me that this was good, and after a few days of letting it sit, I admit that it's become a favorite of my mine, as well. I'd love to hear what you think, and whether it's worth the effort of continuation.

There was once a girl who loved me so much that I unconciously broke her

heart. She was fifteen, a tender age, and known for her conquests, fictional though they

often were. Tragic, spontaneous hallway reenditions of Romeo's scene of death earned

her applause and notoriety...she had always loved to act. I met her in freshman

English, Honors; I remembered her for her violet hair and because she had already

read all of the course work assigned, making her a constant frustration to teachers and

envious peers.

She was one who recited Homer as though speaking to a friend, and quoted

Kafka like she knew him; as though she was recounting a funny comment someone

had made at a recent party. A party of cockroaches and gentlemen.

Her name was Genevieve, accent on the e', if you please. She wasn't French. Not

even of French descent, though she claimed for effect that she had a cousin in Paris

who was studying art. She was Navajo, Czech, and Vietemese, a sweet triad of

beautiful ethnicity (this she had informed the class of during her lengthy introductory

speech), and, if needed, she'd could always kick someone's ass.

Truly, she was beautiful. We thought she was sexy, my friend Damian and I, we

who would sit at the back of the class and attempt to glimpse more of the long, lean,

striped-stocking clad legs portruding from her short black skirt; the tentacles of an

octopus on mushrooms. We loved her. She radiated security in black eyeliner and tai

chi lessons...Our punk rock Nefertiti; Minerva. Artemis.

The first thing she said to me, and I remember it so clearly that I could mimick

the intonation down to the vowel, was this: What the fuck is wrong with your hair?

It's all, and here she touched it, balancing her hand on the sea of dirty blonde spikes, does it stay up on it's own?

I felt deliciously violated. I couldn't respond correctly, wittily, so I told the trite,

patheticly simple truth: Um...glue. Yeah, and rubber cement works the best, but it

smells like shit, so I just use Elmer's.

She gave me her prettiest punk ass smile; I wished to Hell and Buddah and, fuck,

even God that I could catch it in my back pack and hang it on my wall. It's awesome,

she said. I melted. She scratched between the spires, which, I admit, were impressively

tall. I was nearly purring when she asked, Are you a boy are a girl?

I felt my face sag; I have never been one with much facial elasticity, and I'd

hoped...well, that she would know... Girl. Just sort of an androgynous freak of a girl.

She laughed, a flawless sonification of monsoon drenched creosote, Aww, nuh-

uh! I just didn't know if you were a pretty boy or, more laughter, I heard gypsy bells,

a pretty girl. Because you are, you know, you could just sort of be...interchangeable.

Oh my God, she said, upon looking at me (I was close to tears), don't cry about it, I'm

sorry, sorry, ssshh.

I sniffed; my voice was cracked and , it's okay. I get that a lot.

She pulled me into a half-hug, bending down slightly (I am only 4'11'' to her

5'4''). If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended:

That you have but slumbered here,

While these visions did appear;
And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend.

If you pardon, we will mend.' She grinned a maroon, lipsticky grin; a little vampiric,

but sweet. We're gonna be friends, you and I.

Her boyfriend was a cheap punk named Jake, a green haired junior with safety

pins through his ears. She loved him with Helena's passion, but he loved her more, and

wrote her good, rapidly paced, kick ass songs for her on his navy blue Squier guitar.

His band was called Kill All Your Rock Stars, and we went to every gig. She was fond of

dressing me up in pink and lace, making sure to tear it up a bit first and pair it with

fishnets, so as not to look overly Jane Austen.' And no empire waists. Her favorite part

was my hair, which she spiked faithfully with candy colored hair dye mixed with

Elmer's glue.

The gigs took place in dark, glittery clubs downtown, and were faithfully

attended by Tucson's best and most depressed. We moshed, bled, moshed, and only

Genevieve sat onstage, perched atop a spare amp, gazing at Jake. Sometimes I saw

tears seeping down from the corners of her eyes, fucking up her make up, but no one

else noticed or cared. I'd never seen any two people so utterly in love.

_(brownie points for someone who recognizes the poetry from another of my works...)_

There's a girl I know named Manhattan
who wears a trenchcoat made of satin
and when her boy comes back to town
We'll show them all what's going down.