10 things i hate about you
you walked into the kitchen, looking for her. she was leaning against the sink with a calm expression - like there was nowhere else she ever needed to be - munching on a peeled raw potato as if it were an apple.
michelle was your first girlfriend.
she was sixteen. you were nineteen. when you saw her eat that potato, you’d been living together in your mother’s pool house for three months. and for the next five years she never stopped surprising you.
you cooked most nights, though once while working late you rang her and said you’d be late home. if she’d wait, you’d throw something together when you got in. when you finally arrived, there was michelle - dishing out curried sausages to your brothers. you told her you didn’t know she could cook. ‘you never asked,’ she said, sly smile.
another time you came into the living room and found michelle watching a movie in italian - no subtitles. you asked what she was doing. ‘watching a movie,’ just as coolly as when she’d cooked dinner. doubtful, you pressed her - what was it about, what were they saying. she gave you a full rundown. when you asked how the hell she knew italian, she shrugged, ‘i don’t.’
that easy confidence carried her as she wandered around singing ‘grease’ lyrics or reading ‘playgirl’ at the coffee table with a smoke. ‘10 things i hate about you’ was her favorite movie. she played ‘november rain’ nonstop while you read.
the way she moved through life was intoxicating. she never overthought, never tried to be quirky or clever. she laughed easily, was the first to hit the dance floor. everyone was drawn to her.
it’s been years since you’ve thought of michelle this deeply. maybe it’s because now you’re trying to loosen up - not be so rigid, not chase attention.
you wish you could be cool enough to just lean against a sink, stare off into space and eat a potato.