Purple Lipstick

She wore purple lipstick.

No one I knew ever wore purple lipstick, but she did. At first I thought maybe she was a little crazy, but soon enough, I got used to the dark color against her pale skin.

I got used to the unique clothes she always wore when I saw her on Sundays. I got used to her hair being a different color every month. I got used to her staring at me over the backs of chairs, as if I wouldn't notice her tiny form crawling around back there.

And I especially got used to her sitting next to me during the long sermons that I could never seem to pay attention to.

She never talked to me and I was too shy to start a conversation, but we had a mutual respect for one another I think, and that was enough.

Eventually she got adopted into my friend group and eventually I got up the courage to talk to her. Eventually we became close enough that as I was saying goodbye, she pulled me in for a hug.

I was only twelve years old, but I decided I liked her.

I liked the weird kid who wore purple lipstick and had a collection of pocket-knives in her backpack.

Four years later and she doesn't wear purple lipstick anymore. But she still dyes her hair a different color every other month, and she still peeks at me from over the backs of chairs when she thinks I'm not paying attention.