Not hard, not weathered, just lived-in. I want to tell good stories. I don’t want to be that old lady at the back of the Magos who’s always asking for her eggs over-medium. She waves her hands. I want to throw parties that they talk about in the paper. I want to travel. I don’t now if there’s a way to do that that isn’t dangerous. I don’t think I’d want to do it if it wasn’t.
It’s May. It’s Saturday. We’re sunbathing on her roof.
Well, yeah… I say. But how are you supposed to do that and keep your friends and raise your family? You have to pay rent, save for a house.
I guess it’s a choice, she says to the trees.
Hey, you said you were going to show me the photos.
She hands them to me.
Her parents look so young… they look ready to dodge bulls for a living. Now they barely laugh.
They follow the sun to work and come back in after dark. I guess they yell, like everyone’s parents, now and then, but mostly they just shuffle from room to room.
I wish I could turn 26 and hang there. Like jumping a flight of stairs.
My dad said something once about 26. It’s the prime of your life.
Hm. If I jump, I think I want to land in my 30s… then climb back up and jump again.
I love that idea.
Wait, no. I want to tour seedy European bars in big boots, with a knife in my garter belt.
Now you’re talking.
Yeah. I want to sing love songs to 1880s-style cabarets. That’s my life. That’s the life I want. Maybe one day, I’ll meet a guy who gets that.
Maybe he’ll be brave enough to go with you. I pass her the pitcher.
She chuckles. Maybe he’ll be smart enough to stay home.