“What’s your name,” we say at the same time and then we realize our friends are staring. We both have giggly grins and we whip them out like campers with water guns, a little too fast and psyched for trouble.
The next day my phone rings and I already know who it is. “Let’s talk about Chanel,” he says, and we do, for two hours, and then for two weeks, and then it’s sunrise, and summer, and we’re still talking.
We fight a lot but it feels like yoga, when you bring your toes to your chin and it’s agony but you grow. I’m taller now, and I can push further; his fault.
Once in the middle of screaming, he scowls, “You’ve never met anyone like me, have you?”
“No,” I snarl, “but you’ve never met anyone like me either!”
And then we laugh and shove each other, and get sick on Starbucks, and fight some more. In the morning I ache, but I’m Gwyneth-tall when I stretch.
[HAPPY BIRTHDAY, POOPYHEAD - EVERYBODY LOVES YOU]