Second First Impressions

by Sally Thorne

She also writes down the details of each date, “in case I’m murdered.” She trusts me to be her police witness? I’m conflicted about how honored I am.

The dark, scribbly-looking forest isn’t good for hiking or picnic-blanket daydreaming; I’ve tried both. It’s nothing but mosquitoes and Bigfoot manure in those trees.

Tidy girl seeks a tall messy man to press her up against things. She wants to get messed up, flat on a bed, on the edge of desks, walls, moonlit lawns. Every door unlocked, always. All she wants is skin, the satin heat of it all, a thick rope of black silk hair coiled in her palm . . .

It’s quite frankly amazing how I’ve managed to KonMari those feelings into a matchbox.

Everything that gives you a sick stomach is a great example in a job interview one day.”

Life is only bearable if you have someone attractive to complain to.

A walk of shame when you’re over eighty is really, really slow.”

I get it now. Life requires full, up-to-the-neck participation.

Men: so animal, growing bristles and beards. It must be a lot of effort to disguise it.

Walk around like you’re the shit. Feel beautiful. Be sure of it.

All I know is, nothing in life feels that bad when I’m eating carbs and fat. Everything will work out, because of cheese.

“It hurts that you don’t know you’re lovely, exactly how you are. You don’t need to change. You don’t need to put on a dress, like it’s going to fix something. You don’t have anything that needs fixing.”

“You’re the thousand-dollar dress on the rack in this thrift store and I can’t believe no one’s picked you up yet.”

“I know what I do, and I want to be different with you.”

“Brown-eyed sublime being. She of soft, deep cardigan pockets. Bubble-bath taker. Pool jumper. Cheese provider. Sunset glower. Heaven sent.”

“I wish I could be even a fraction of the person you are. Sometimes, I lose all composure when you look at me. You’ve got this look that just . . . levels me flat.”

I always thought that love would feel like something gentle, but this isn’t. I feel a clawing, desperate need to hold his heart in my hand and to fend off anything that might damage it.

the red string of fate—the idea that you and another are tied together, finding your way back to each other. Sometimes the string ties two individuals together who have something to learn from each other. Other times, it’s true love.

That red string never gets it wrong, and unlikely puzzle pieces always fit together.

Plan, but also go with it.