Was it Nabokov who described them as deer? Or maybe it was gazelles. Girls of a certain age. Maybe it wasn’t Nabokov at all. But there is certainly something Nabakovian about the fascination with the subject matter. The attention to detail. The keen observation, and corresponding description, of their supple, almost wobbling grace. Their boundless energy, devoid of self-consciousness. An absent toe touch they picked up from dance class. A cartwheel just because. A sing-song underbreath hum. The twirling of hair and snapping of gum. A giggle any second.
The waft of something like strawberries, or maybe watermelon candy (lip gloss?). Always. The not-quite clumsy gait and movement, confident and sure because it never occurred to them that there was any other way. The blinking Bambi obliviousness.
The only gazelles I have ever seen were on the Discovery channel. Curious and venturing. Vibrantly energetic. Bold. Playful and carefree.
Right up until they get eaten by the crocodile.