{"id":157,"date":"2025-09-12T09:45:00","date_gmt":"2025-09-12T09:45:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/localhost\/Everest\/WordPress%20Project\/viable\/?p=157"},"modified":"2025-09-22T06:28:55","modified_gmt":"2025-09-22T06:28:55","slug":"loved-the-lady-with-black-curly-hair","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/?p=157","title":{"rendered":"Loved the lady with black curly hair"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\u2019d been walking to my usual spot with a sketchbook, but I stopped short\u2014frozen 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.<\/div>\n
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\u201cMind if I sit?\u201d I asked, my voice quieter than I\u2019d meant it to be. She looked up, and her eyes\u2014warm, dark, like her hair\u2014crinkled at the corners. \u201cOnly if you share your sketchbook later,\u201d she said, shifting to make space. Her name was Marisol, and she told me she was in town visiting her sister, that she\u2019d found the bench that morning and couldn\u2019t bear to leave. \u201cThe vines feel like a hug,\u201d 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. \u201cMy hair\u2019s a disaster today,\u201d she laughed, twisting a curl around her finger. \u201cCurly hair and humidity? It\u2019s a losing battle.\u201d I shook my head. \u201cIt\u2019s not a disaster. It\u2019s\u2026 lively. Like you.\u201d Her cheeks flushed, and she looked back at her book, but I saw the smile she was hiding.<\/div>\n
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We met there every day that week. She\u2019d bring strawberries and iced tea; I\u2019d bring my sketchbook, and by the third day, I was drawing her\u2014quick, quiet sketches of her reading, of her laughing, of those black curls catching the sun. \u201cYou make my hair look better than it is,\u201d she said when she found the sketches tucked in my bag. I handed her the one I\u2019d 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. \u201cIt\u2019s exactly how I see you,\u201d I said. She traced the lines of her hair with her finger, and her voice was soft. \u201cNo one\u2019s ever looked at me like this before.\u201d<\/div>\n
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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. \u201cI have to leave tomorrow,\u201d she said, her knee bumping mine. I felt my chest tighten, like the vines wrapping around the bench. \u201cWill you come back?\u201d I asked. She reached up, and for a second, I thought she\u2019d touch my face\u2014but she tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear instead, her fingers brushing my cheek. \u201cOnly if you promise to keep drawing my curls,\u201d she said. Then she leaned in, and her lips met mine\u2014soft, 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.<\/div>\n
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She left the next morning, but she sent me a letter a week later, with a pressed ivy leaf inside. \u201cFound this by the bench,\u201d the note said. \u201cThought you\u2019d want it for your sketchbook. P.S. My hair\u2019s still being chaotic\u2014wish you were here to draw it.\u201d I wrote back every day, and soon we were video calling every night, talking until the sun came up. She\u2019d hold up her phone to show me her curls in different lights\u2014\u201cLook, it\u2019s frizzy today!\u201d \u201cLook, I tried to braid it, and it unraveled!\u201d\u2014and I\u2019d sketch them from the screen, sending her the drawings as soon as they were done.<\/div>\n
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Six months later, I got a text from her: \u201cI\u2019m at the bench. Bring your sketchbook.\u201d I ran to the park, my heart pounding, and there she was\u2014sitting on the vine-wrapped bench, her black curly hair just as I remembered, catching the sun like obsidian. \u201cI\u2019m not leaving this time,\u201d she said, standing up to meet me. I pulled her into a hug, and her curls brushed my neck, soft and familiar. \u201cI missed your hair,\u201d I whispered into her shoulder. She laughed, pulling back to look at me. \u201cYou missed me<\/i>, not just my hair.\u201d I kissed her, slow and deep. \u201cI missed all of you\u2014your laugh, your strawberries, your chaotic curly hair. I loved the lady with black curly long before I knew I\u2019d get to keep her.\u201d<\/div>\n
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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\u2014just like I wanted to do that first day. She\u2019ll smile and say, \u201cYou\u2019re still obsessed with my hair,\u201d and I\u2019ll shake my head. \u201cI\u2019m obsessed with you<\/i>. The hair\u2019s just the first thing I noticed\u2014 the thing that made me stop, that made me want to know more.\u201d<\/div>\n
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Love isn\u2019t just about grand gestures. It\u2019s about the way someone\u2019s 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\u2019re 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\u2014the ones with strawberries and ivy and curls that catch the sun. And I\u2019ll keep loving her, every day, for all the moments still to come\u2014curly hair and all.<\/div>\n
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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…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":437,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[3],"tags":[8,22,25,28],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/157"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=157"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/157\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":585,"href":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/157\/revisions\/585"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/437"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=157"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=157"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.xsslovedating.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=157"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}