My Dark Vanessa

by Kate Elizabeth Russell

Lurking deep within me, he said, was a dark romanticism, the same kind he saw within himself.

In English we read Walt Whitman and Mr. Strane talks about the idea that people contain multitudes and contradictions.

I’m no longer myself; I am no one. I’m a red balloon caught in the boughs of a tree. I’m nothing at all.

Your life is like a movie. She didn’t understand the horror of watching your body star in something your mind didn’t agree to. She meant it as a compliment. Isn’t that what all teenage girls want? Endlessly bored, aching for an audience.

I can feel her hurt. She’s trying to pull me back into being a kid, back when she and I never needed to do anything, when we’d just get in the car and head out, happy to be together.

“I didn’t. I just like the attention. He’s obviously a loser.”

The barista starts the espresso machine, a din of grinding and steam, and after a minute our drinks arrive side by side, identical tulips drawn in the foam. We sit near the window, a buffer of empty tables around us.

With the sun on my face and a dog at my side, I have so much capacity for good.