The pressure got to me. Where are you from? She held up her hand as she chewed and my gaze stayed fixed on her profile. Her nose turned up at the end, just slightly. Was it strange to think someone had a beautiful forehead? Hers had an elegant curve, not too big or flat. It was fluffed at the crown, bunched from the ponytail that draped down the center of her shoulders. She was probably seven or eight inches shorter than my six three. She was thin, but there was strength in her body too, especially those toned legs.
Second to her eyes, they were my favorite feature. She swallowed, using her napkin to wipe her soft, supple lips. Great weather, which is a good thing, considering where I lived.
When I was sixteen, I ran away from home. A runaway? She seemed too refined and delicate. I learned how to take care of myself. It was unfathomable. I was mad and a teenager and just. I was going to walk to LA. That junkyard became my home for two years. Eventually, six of us lived there. That Cadillac? I slept in the backseat. No wonder she hovered over that car. They just let me go. Pieces of shit. There was a man who ran the junkyard and watched out for us.
It was his property, and Lou let us live there. He let us use the bathroom and shower in his shop. At sixteen. I shook my head. But you have to understand, for the first time in my life, I had people who cared about me. The six of us kids and Lou, we were a family.
We looked out for one another. We made sure we all had food to eat and clothes to wear. What about school? But we all worked. We put the junkyard as our address. I waitressed at a pizza place. What had her bosses thought? We were a bunch of kids who camped every night of the week. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Fast food if we had the money. Canned green beans. I brought a lot of pizza back for us to share. What would that have been like? Would I have survived a runaway life at that age?
