She sent me a copy of Carson McCuller’s The Heart is a Lonely Hunter about 6 years ago when we were still friends. The contents of the box also included a handwritten note, an awkward picture of her from childhood and a few other books that I had lent her a year ago. I had to keep the letter and picture in my desk at work so my girlfriend wouldn’t find it. It don’t remember it being inappropriate, but her tone sounded like she was in love with me.
Neither of us were very good at hiding it.
I’m on Facebook talking to the girl I sat next to in third grade. We’re exchanging stories about what we recall from 1989. I believe us to be polar opposites regarding everything in life, except small talk. My strongest memory of her is when she told me to say “Who died and made you king” to another classmate who had made fun of my sweat pants. She was the first girl in Kentucky that I fell in love with. Granted, I was 8. She tells me that she’s in love with Jesus now. She’s 31.
Needless to say, she’s still on the market.
I can’t remember her name.
She’s the only girl that I’ve ever met on a dating site. We bonded over our mutual love for pre-World War II Blues. She liked Ma Rainey.
Her nose was striking, but I can’t recall what the rest of her looked like, just her nose. I’m not sure if beauty is in the flaw or if I just wondered if the rest of her body was proportionate to her nose when she was naked.
She stopped calling when she found out I was her fuck buddy’s boss.
She tried to hide her face in the scarf that was loosely wrapped around her neck, but I could still see that her mascara was running-- because she had decided not to anymore. Our arms tightly wrapped each other as I watched her trembling face transfer from her scarf to mine. Winter had decided to arrive fashionably late that year.
“I’m just so sad.”
“I didn’t even like him that much.”
“You’re not crying because of him.”