An Idea of a Girl

She doesn't have a name. She doesn't really exist. She's an idea, or a collection of ideas, in my head. I can't really see her, but I have an awareness of her. When she's around, I know what she's doing. I can catch glimpses out of the corner of my eye. There's a leg, a hand. She darts across the hall, a shadow. She's behind me. She's breathing on my neck. I can feel the air change as she smiles. She haunts me like a ghost.

But I know she's not a ghost. This is something I have to keep clear in my head. She's just an idea, a figment. She doesn't have a name, but I call her the quicksilver woman. She's cold, metallic, and featureless. She changes faces to mock me, takes shapes to tease me, chases me, torments me, hates me.

I see her out in the world, in public. I might see a woman walking on the street and some part of the way her hair falls, the pace of her step, the tilt of her head, reminds me of that idea. I see the quicksilver in this woman. I see her taunting me from inside this innocent creature. Sometimes I have to turn my head, stare at the ground.

It's not something I can talk about. I know how crazy it sounds. I know it's unfair. I can be very careful. She keeps away, stays quiet, if I'm careful. Sometimes, if I'm having a conversation with a woman, I get carried away. I fall into her taunts. I get unreasonably angry. I snap, I sneer, and she wins. She laughs and leaves whenever I lose my cool. She must keep a tally somewhere.

I'm worried that someday I'll walk into a room and see her. She'll be there and I will see the whole of her. Maybe she's not really hiding or running. Maybe it's me looking away, avoiding her. Deep down I know I can't let myself see her without losing everything else.

Wouldn't be so bad if I didn't need her like I do. Maybe she wants to go. Maybe that's why she hates me.