The things is, by the time I was twenty-two, I was so used to being with boys who couldn’t live without me that I could hardly fathom a man who would pick up his newspaper and hardly blink when I curled up beside him.
Now I am twenty-three and you tilt your head toward me for a kiss on the cheek without lifting your eyes from an article about the stock market (or something comparably dense). I flutter around and I find things to do, but in the back of my mind I’m still curiously surprised by all the flowers you’re not sending me.
You have no idea how many times you’ve told me the same stories, or that you’re the first person that I let get away with that. Partly it’s because I like the way you tell them, partly it’s because I’m committing things to memory. I’m using things against you or for you, it can be hard to say which.
More than twice you told me about the girl in the peasant blouse, and I recognized that the blouse was more than a blouse now. It was you and your eighteen year old hormones and ideas about breasts, half-concealed by white cotton. So when I saw that filmy white fabric in the shop, I bought it and wore it and knew you’d react, though you wouldn’t remember why. And I blushed, feeling sneaky and pretty, and like an eighteen year old someone else, which I think is what you’re missing after all.