to someone how my nose bleeds if I get too upset, and how the night Russell died, as I stood by my car absorbing the news, blood dripped into the snow as I raged and sobbed.
Now, like everybody else, I’ve had a lot of shitty nights (including this one —thanks), but there’s something unique about a night when your town explodes with murder, and someone you love goes down, down, down: shot in the head. Seventeen.
What world must I inhabit to become more wholly her?
Their memories. Why are they so vague? I still see many moments so sharply.
Their faces. Why do they look older than me if we’re the same age? Have they had more fun? (Except for my neck. My neck looks bad. Pretty sure it hasn’t had more fun, though.)
Their taste in movies. Not universal, but very, very frequent.
Their tolerance for background noise.
Their desire to almost always be in company with another.
Their shoe size. I have a common shoe size, yet no one seems to share it. Why?
That bush still drives me nuts.