Ariadne
Ariadne, dressed sensibly. Sensible hat, sensible shoes, little white gloves, some said she was a very sensible girl. She was thirteen when all sensibility flew out the window. She laughs about it now. Those teenage years were difficult for a girl so sensible. Life’s possibilities just swirled around her with invitations to be less than her sensible self; invitations to go barefoot, to shed those gloves and stop wearing sensible shoes. So many tantalizing drugs and sex, first little kisses brought the thoughts of what might happen. It scared her. But the more boys she kissed, the more she discovered about herself. She might really not be a sensible girl at heart. Perhaps she was wild. Perhaps she could tempt fate. Maybe she could even fly. Oh she knew that was silly. She wasn’t a bird; she was a girl, a young woman actually.
Ariadne’s mother noticed this change taking place. She knew that teenagers go through difficult times growing up. She wasn’t so old that she couldn’t remember her teenage years. Ariadne’s mother was a woman of great patience and very good humor. She thought at first that Ariadne might begin to confide in her mother now that her life was changing. She didn’t. But her mom remained ever hopeful and steadfastly present for her young daughter.
Her mom pretended to be so cool, but she didn’t know anything about peer pressure and boys. Adriane hated having her friends over to the house. All of her friends loved her mother and thought she was hip. But Ariadne just saw her mom as the furthest thing from hip as could possibly be. Even her friends couldn’t understand her.
"It’s an act!" she would yell at them. "She’s not really that cool! She’s playing you. My mother is not cool—she’s a witch! I see her at night casting spells on people... Especially my dad. She can get him to do anything. And he likes it! I’m sick of her. Of them! She’s just not cool!"
Ariadne really longed to be eighteen and rid herself of her family.
"Eighteen will come soon enough," she thought.
Yes, Ariadne. Time can move fast and slow, it’s the nature of time. But don’t wish it to move too quickly. Have it stop now and then. Fill it up, every second.
Oh but that’s my story, not hers.
