At twenty-two, you sleep in yellow, have minor misconceptions about married life, what swimsuits and plane rides mean to it, and constantly forget who or what your closets friends were named after. One of them is blonde. She wears her hair up, mostly. Says that with her hair tied like that, it's probable that no one can tell it’s curly. You’re sitting across from one another. It’s still sunny enough to sit on concrete; she stretches her legs in the direction yours are pointing and she says, “I always thought the second half of your name was insignificant. It’s good that you’re changing it.” She says, “It never brought anything to mind.”
Posted by caroline at September 30, 2005 3:24 AM