Dre

Dre
by Flannery Johnson

Andrea Hunt walks out to my car. She walks with a particular gait, as though she is bouncing with each step she takes. She often does not even walk to get from place to place. She cartwheels, runs, somersaults, and skips as she makes her way though life. Now she is half running, half skipping her way to my car. She is adorned in one of her usual mismatched outfits, a collection of camouflage and tie-dye, that often get her strange looks when in public, and I again marvel at how unconcerned she is with how others perceive her. She catapults into my car, her bags exploding her things all over the back seat. She plugs her iPod into my car stereo, blasting her music before turning to me to inform me of her latest life adventure.

She has flaxen hair that falls slightly below her shoulders; it frames her wide happy face that makes my day every time I see it. She has the build of a volleyball player, because of the cult/ team she is part of, and golden skin from her summer spent lying on her dock. When she tells a story she talks, not only with her hands, but also with her entire body, gesturing wildly as she reenacts what has happened. She sits in the seat beside mine, rooting through her bag while telling me her story, unloading what seems to be her entire life onto the floor of my car.

Andrea is not a subtle human; she is loud, boisterous and hard to miss. I glance at her beside me, her purple sunglasses pushing her hair out of her laughing face, her hands still rooting around in her bag for her white sunglasses case, her strawberry scent invading my car. She is insouciant.

Advertisement