My, how the butt resembles your butt. You, admittedly being of little consequence, but, come back here or are left here initially and are not carried away by the years.
Why was it your project for the summer to have me hate you? When my sister sent me a large box of ripe citrus you ate all of it? How did you eat all of it? Or threw the box away. Or gave the oranges to orphans, the limes to a superfluity of nuns and ate the lonely grapefruit. Or confused the box with something lethal and set it aflame with the zippo lighter we purchased togeether. Or, hating my sister (or was it I, yours) marked the damned thing 'Return to Sender' and kicked it to the curb.
If Edward Gorey were sitting in his house in Worchester at a desk and illustrating the HMS something, would love be in it? What, with the commonness of romance in films and on television, one should be immune to them. These years hence are conspicuous, the moments. Could these be years or are they moments?
We went to the Amy Adams one with Steve Zahn. You thought that he was attractive. "Baby girl," whoever would say, and then like the first real date—in middle school—when going for the hand the elbow comes first.
