To speak the name of a sweetheart or former crush is a magic spell. I could recall and reminisce on just about everything, but I always had a whole lot of trouble saying their names out loud.
One time, I wrote them all down. Twenty-five names. Twenty-five sweet little girls. Each name a song, each girl an epoch, a عهد, a pearly eternity. Each heartbreak its own damp and delicate cataclysm.
It’s not the asses and tits that I remember after all these years, but the things I didn’t know that I had noticed before. I think about their smiles. Their screams. The freckles. The dimples. The golden ponytail. The way she used to say “boots.” The way she’d cry out “goodness” when she made it. Her stringy hair along the bathroom floor. Her uncanny knowledge of the textile industry. Her fingers and toes. The snort in her giggle. The tickle in her eye. Clementines. Earrings. Earrings. Why are bitches always forgetting their earrings?
I don’t know who She is just yet. I may have met Her once before. Maybe She’s younger, maybe old. Maybe she’ll have a sense of humor, for sure. And she’ll be clumsy, tripping and shit. I always liked the clumsy ones. I always loved the ones with bumps and scars.
Back to chapter one.
