The name is after an Australian singer I really love. “Lenka.” You should check her out if you don’t already know her. I was putting my little brother to bed and I was reading him this story that takes place in a town called Claremont, which I thought was a pretty name. I just found myself imagining “Lenka Claremont” and wanted to write it all down. Let me know if you think it has any kind of a future.
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“I can’t do this anymore.”
They were the first words she spoke to him. He didn’t know her, she didn’t know him. She closed her eyes, willing the situation to disappear.
“I can’t talk to you.” She didn’t want to get involved. There were too many guys like him running around. She put her hand on her forehead, covering her right eye.
“Get the fuck out of my way.” She opened her eyes, glaring at him.
She didn’t expect him to move without a little encouragement. That’s just the way boys were.
“God, fucking bitch.” He looked at her in disbelief.
She smiled wanly at him, and he brushed by her in disgust.
Lenka ran a tired hand through her mass of dark brown hair. The sun was low in the sky, casting a rusty-red light over what may as well have been the whole world. She didn’t want to go home… not when her mother was waiting for her, waiting until Lenka trudged in, with smudged makeup and dirty shoes.
Lenka didn’t want to feel her mother’s worried eyes on her back, asking if she wanted some tea or coffee or maybe an extra pillow for her bed.
I could make you an omelet, Links. With cheese and sausage, just like your dad used to make. Or maybe some toast? We’ve got fresh strawberry jam in the fridge… Lenka shook her head, trying to erase the image of her mother from her mind. She was making life incredibly painful for her mom, she knew that. She could see the worry lines forming on her once beautiful face, her hands turning hard and dark. But everybody got old, right?
Everybody, it seemed, but Lenka.
Lenka had been angelically beautiful from the moment she’d been born. Her face was timeless, her character gentle but sometimes fierce. She’d never changed, in all her 20 years on the earth.
Lenka Claremont was a legend. She was the girl that could speak fluently at the age of one, the girl with bright green eyes that were as bright as the sun shining through two pieces of sea glass. She was the girl who knew her multiplication tables by age 4 and could give relationship advice at age 6.
But Lenka wasn’t a genius. She just skipped her childhood. Her body, even, didn’t changed that much. When she was 11 or so, her curves became more pronounced and she got her period, but she’d never been chubby or skinny as a stick. She’d always been beautiful.
Lenka banged the tip of a beer bottle on a rock, then brought the cool drink to her lips. Her skin, the color of dark caramel, shone in the darkening light. Her long, dark hair hung loosely around her lower back, and her enormous eyes blinked like two stars.
She knew she was beautiful. Sexy, even. Certainly the faces of the men she passed told her that much.
But Lenka didn’t have a clue who she was. What was the point of being beautiful if that’s all you were?
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I know it ends kind of abruptly… I’m not sure where I’m going with this. Feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!
