Status: hai guise. NO THIS STORY IS NOT OVER. life has been a ***ing party lately and i just haven't had time to write. i'm trying, though; i promise. :)
Willie
and the sidewalk holds diamonds
Four days after the interview Willie found out she got the job and my heart stopped when she called and said, "Lawson, oh my god, I just had to tell you first..." I told her to let me take her out for dinner in celebration and I swear I died when she laughed, then I died again when she said okay.
When I got to Willie's she was standing in the parking lot in the same spot she always did and she was wearing that short pink dress with the polka dots and that coat with the crunchy fur hood and the broken zipper. She had on more makeup than usual even though she didn't need it and the apples of her cheeks were rosy and glowing when she smiled at me. She held my hand the whole ten minute walk there.
I took her to Tommy's, one of those sketchy places with criminally cheap prices and world-class food. Even with our mouths full, we didn't stop talking the whole time and god, I could've just listened to her forever.
Her favorite movie was Annie Hall and her favorite book--god, she actually read books--was The Great Gatsby, and even though most people preferred World War II, she thought the first one was more interesting--"You know what they say about sequels," she'd said and I'd laughed so hard and wished I'd thought to say it. She talked to her mom on holidays only and her favorite mode of transportation was the Greyhound bus and she always wanted to be a neurosurgeon but didn't have the finances or the ambition.
She was so cool.
"Do you wanna... come in? For just a bit?" she asked me with her eyes on the concrete after I walked her to her apartment door and I never knew until then what one simple question could do to the nervous system--the way I stopped being cold even though my phone said it was twelve degrees, the way I could taste my reply stuck in my throat, the way my stomach twisted and turned until I felt sick in the best way possible.
That was the first time I saw her apartment in the three weeks I'd known her. We sat on her thrift store sofa in front of a Looney Tunes marathon and split two bottles of cheap wine, and as Porky the Pig was letting us know that was all folks, I somehow worked up the nerve to blurt out in a moment of liquid courage, "I really like you."
She said it was getting really late, that I should probably go. I was still too high on the sound of her voice to mind the frigid walk home.
When I got to Willie's she was standing in the parking lot in the same spot she always did and she was wearing that short pink dress with the polka dots and that coat with the crunchy fur hood and the broken zipper. She had on more makeup than usual even though she didn't need it and the apples of her cheeks were rosy and glowing when she smiled at me. She held my hand the whole ten minute walk there.
I took her to Tommy's, one of those sketchy places with criminally cheap prices and world-class food. Even with our mouths full, we didn't stop talking the whole time and god, I could've just listened to her forever.
Her favorite movie was Annie Hall and her favorite book--god, she actually read books--was The Great Gatsby, and even though most people preferred World War II, she thought the first one was more interesting--"You know what they say about sequels," she'd said and I'd laughed so hard and wished I'd thought to say it. She talked to her mom on holidays only and her favorite mode of transportation was the Greyhound bus and she always wanted to be a neurosurgeon but didn't have the finances or the ambition.
She was so cool.
"Do you wanna... come in? For just a bit?" she asked me with her eyes on the concrete after I walked her to her apartment door and I never knew until then what one simple question could do to the nervous system--the way I stopped being cold even though my phone said it was twelve degrees, the way I could taste my reply stuck in my throat, the way my stomach twisted and turned until I felt sick in the best way possible.
That was the first time I saw her apartment in the three weeks I'd known her. We sat on her thrift store sofa in front of a Looney Tunes marathon and split two bottles of cheap wine, and as Porky the Pig was letting us know that was all folks, I somehow worked up the nerve to blurt out in a moment of liquid courage, "I really like you."
She said it was getting really late, that I should probably go. I was still too high on the sound of her voice to mind the frigid walk home.