Second First Impressions

by Sally Thorne

He picks me dahlias from the bank of the lake. Sure, I planted them so they’re sort of mine already, but he doesn’t know that. He drew red lipstick hearts on my rehab tortoises. He swept the leaves from the courtyard. Gingersnap cookies, still warm from the Parlonis’ oven. My favorites have been the little artworks he’s created for me on the backs of receipts and menus. In the blank space in between Hawaiian Supreme and Mega Meatlovers, he drew a girl in a bathtub. I’m gonna design you the perfect tattoo, it’s just taking a while.

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.”

“Seems like a lot of people have been telling you what you’re like. It’s time to decide if you believe them.”

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

Have you ever been caught off guard by the sound of your own heartbeat? Maybe you’ve pressed your ear weirdly on your pillow, and now all you can hear is your own proof of life. You are confronted with your mortality in a base, clock-ticking kind of way: you have an engine room, and it has a finite timeline. What a miracle and a privilege.