small town girls




by Michelle K.

You pride yourself on your instincts.

Otherwise, you wouldn't be a reporter. Otherwise, you'd write fiction based on your own definition of truth.

But you know the truth when you see it, so you're a reporter.

There are certain things that you know. You know that the meteor caused things more mystical and bizarre than a couple of deaths. You know that the Kents are secretive about Clark's adoption for a reason.

You know that the way Lex looks at Clark is more than friendly. You know things about their relationship. You don't need to walk in on them to know that there would be something to walk in on.

You're a reporter; you have your instincts.

So, you know that Clark and Lex are linked. And you know that Lana is perpetually oblivious to what is right in front of her face.

You think you know a few things about Lana, in fact.

You know that she's smart, pretty, full of life.

Most people know that, really. Clark knows that, even when wearing his Lex-colored glasses.

But you know other things, just like any good reporter. You know them from observation, from watching, from your fine-tuned common sense.

>From your instincts.

You know that there's more sadness to her than her bright smile suggests. You know that there's more to her than cheering, popularity, veiled ambition. You know that she's more than the sum of her perfect parts.

You know how her hip curves. You know how her teeth sparkle under the sun. You know that she prefers cherry lip-gloss, but can sometimes be seem applying strawberry. You know that her hair is soft, and that she can run her fingers through it with ease.

You know that what she has with Whitney isn't going to last. You know that she'll bounce right back. You know that everyone will be after her.

You know that she's sweet, good, honest, beautiful.

You know that she's perfect.

You know that she'll always look this perfect. In twenty years, when you're worn down by life, work, broken relationships, she'll still look fresh and clean.

You know her well.

But you can't pinpoint how you feel. You can't say how your knowledge changes you.

You know that you don't want to thrust yourself in-between Clark and Lex. You know that you have more respect for Lana.

You know that you like her, despite the perfection that perpetually sheathes her from the outside world.

But you're not sure how much you like her. How much of your thoughts are just judging the aesthetics of someone in front of you.

You're not quite sure if you want to touch her hip, taste that lip gloss, run your fingers through dark hair.

Your instincts, though, are saying that you do.