The first time I saw her, the sun was filtering through the oak trees above the vine-wrapped bench, and her black curly hair was catching the light like crushed obsidian. She was sitting cross-legged on the bench, a book in one hand and a half-eaten strawberry in the other, and a strand of those curls had fallen loose, brushing her cheek as she laughed at something in the pages. I’d been walking to my usual spot with a sketchbook, but I stopped short—frozen by the way those curls bounced when she tilted her head, by the way she tucked them behind her ear with a finger that had a smudge of strawberry juice on it.
“Mind if I sit?” I asked, my voice quieter than I’d meant it to be. She looked up, and her eyes—warm, dark, like her hair—crinkled at the corners. “Only if you share your sketchbook later,” she said, shifting to make space. Her name was Marisol, and she told me she was in town visiting her sister, that she’d found the bench that morning and couldn’t bear to leave. “The vines feel like a hug,” she said, reaching out to brush a tendril of ivy. A curl fell forward again, and I resisted the urge to tuck it back for her. “My hair’s a disaster today,” she laughed, twisting a curl around her finger. “Curly hair and humidity? It’s a losing battle.” I shook my head. “It’s not a disaster. It’s… lively. Like you.” Her cheeks flushed, and she looked back at her book, but I saw the smile she was hiding.
We met there every day that week. She’d bring strawberries and iced tea; I’d bring my sketchbook, and by the third day, I was drawing her—quick, quiet sketches of her reading, of her laughing, of those black curls catching the sun. “You make my hair look better than it is,” she said when she found the sketches tucked in my bag. I handed her the one I’d spent hours on the night before: a detailed drawing of her sitting on the bench, vines curling around the wood, her curls falling over her shoulders like a soft curtain. “It’s exactly how I see you,” I said. She traced the lines of her hair with her finger, and her voice was soft. “No one’s ever looked at me like this before.”
On her last day in town, we sat on the bench until sunset. The sky turned pink and orange, and her black curls took on a warm, honeyed glow in the fading light. “I have to leave tomorrow,” she said, her knee bumping mine. I felt my chest tighten, like the vines wrapping around the bench. “Will you come back?” I asked. She reached up, and for a second, I thought she’d touch my face—but she tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear instead, her fingers brushing my cheek. “Only if you promise to keep drawing my curls,” she said. Then she leaned in, and her lips met mine—soft, sweet, with the taste of strawberries. Her curls fell around us, like a private curtain, and the vines rustled in the breeze, as if cheering.
She left the next morning, but she sent me a letter a week later, with a pressed ivy leaf inside. “Found this by the bench,” the note said. “Thought you’d want it for your sketchbook. P.S. My hair’s still being chaotic—wish you were here to draw it.” I wrote back every day, and soon we were video calling every night, talking until the sun came up. She’d hold up her phone to show me her curls in different lights—“Look, it’s frizzy today!” “Look, I tried to braid it, and it unraveled!”—and I’d sketch them from the screen, sending her the drawings as soon as they were done.
Six months later, I got a text from her: “I’m at the bench. Bring your sketchbook.” I ran to the park, my heart pounding, and there she was—sitting on the vine-wrapped bench, her black curly hair just as I remembered, catching the sun like obsidian. “I’m not leaving this time,” she said, standing up to meet me. I pulled her into a hug, and her curls brushed my neck, soft and familiar. “I missed your hair,” I whispered into her shoulder. She laughed, pulling back to look at me. “You missed me, not just my hair.” I kissed her, slow and deep. “I missed all of you—your laugh, your strawberries, your chaotic curly hair. I loved the lady with black curly long before I knew I’d get to keep her.”
Now, we still sit on that bench every weekend. She brings strawberries, I bring my sketchbook, and her black curly hair still catches the light like crushed obsidian. Sometimes, when the wind blows, a curl falls loose, and I tuck it behind her ear—just like I wanted to do that first day. She’ll smile and say, “You’re still obsessed with my hair,” and I’ll shake my head. “I’m obsessed with you. The hair’s just the first thing I noticed— the thing that made me stop, that made me want to know more.”
Love isn’t just about grand gestures. It’s about the way someone’s curls fall when they laugh, about the way they tuck a strand behind your ear, about the way you miss even the messy parts of them when they’re gone. I loved the lady with black curly before I knew her name, before I knew her favorite book or the way she laughs at bad jokes. I loved her in the small, quiet moments—the ones with strawberries and ivy and curls that catch the sun. And I’ll keep loving her, every day, for all the moments still to come—curly hair and all.
