At 36, she learned about velvet pants and bobby pins.
Before that, it was Florida oranges, strip mall sushi, and good sex.
And by good sex she meant it was the first time she wasn't afraid.
The second time she felt, well, how did she say it exactly?
It will come. Maybe later, at 37, 40, or 52.
It being—well, most things we wait for or delay:
Things deepen, she said, staring at the Diet Coke. All things deepen.
I know that, come on.
But she swore,
over a lukewarm avocado roll,
that she will not carry what they carry.
I asked but already knew the answer.
They can only ever be the same two people who always go unmentioned in writing,
dead or alive.
She sneezed, and then asked me for my blessing.