#Youtoo
You didn’t, actually, get away with it
Hi handsome. Yeah, you.
I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, how you wore those pants with so many zippers — you know the ones — you had a pocket for everything you could possibly need, like your pens, say, your money clip, your glasses and those tiny wooden picks you softened on your tongue after lunch, then used to dig out the food that fell into the gaps between your teeth.
I’ve been thinking about your hair — how it rose high off of your head in thick curls — a bit like my grandmother’s hair, now that I think about it — after she’d been to the salon, where they blew her thin, flaccid filaments into poofy ringlets. “I’ve grown several inches,” she’d say when she got home. She was barely five feet tall and half that wide. I remember thinking this as a child: that she looked like she was wearing a spiderweb. And I loved her for it.
Don’t worry. I won’t name you. This is between us. All your success stays right where it is: in your pockets; on the Internet; in your immaculate houses.
Your hair is thicker, of course, but it’s got that same shimmering silver. “Distinguished, no?” you liked to say, as if you spoke more than one language fluently, as if this…