We had gathered in the park by the bay again. It was night and back in the days when it was safe to go to the park at night. We had made a nice bonfire and enjoyed ourselves with the music of guitar. If it was rock, we liked it.
My best friend was there with her tight jeans and long flowing tresses. She had beautiful, haunting, but not haunted, hazel eyes. She and I sat together by the fire and swayed to the music. We were teens.
That night was not special. It was like most nights that we went out. The bay was gorgeous and soothing because its waters were still and maybe even graceful. My best friend was graceful.
She always had poise and a mature demeanor. Later on, she would study at Community College and win a full scholarship to complete her studies at the most prestigious University in town. I was so proud of her. She had made it out of the mud.
That night, we were quiet. Everyone else was joking and laughing. She and I were laughing along, listening to VoiVod or someone and enjoying the night. That night had been a first quarter moon, and there was mostly only the light from the fire. Alongside the water was a little murito or small concrete wall bordering the sloshing water. It never stopped, that water.
Nothing spectacular happened that night. Our curfews arrived and she and I piled into my boyfriend’s Ford. On the way to our homes we sang along with the cassette deck. I leaned out the window to feel the rush of air on my skin. She looked out her window. My boyfriend dropped her off in front of her house. She had been a beautiful girl-woman. She is still that way. I just know it.