Van Ness ‘97

You are a downed power line and I am standing there, unsure what to do, keeping my distance. Perhaps someone else will come along, braver than I am. And they can get hurt for their courage.

But no one approaches. So I get closer.

It’s early evening in spring. You’re getting dressed. I’m pacing around, hands in my suit pant pockets, antsy. Running an eye over all these devices you use to look more beautiful, spread across the vanity. You don’t need them.

“We’re going to be late,” I say.

“My hair needs to dry,” you reply calmly, distracted.

“Just blow dry it.”

Slow turn, incredulous. And after pausing for effect:

“Do you have any idea what would happen if I blow dried my hair?”

But you are smiling. And I am, too.

Because of course I don’t.