She has a constellation of moles on the outside of her right ankle, and another below her right shoulder. I can see them when she’s driving.
It’s now dusk, and her shades are up in her hair. She’s all bottom lip and furrowed brow, thinking. A baby girl ponytail holder and a striped halter top detract from her seriousness.
"I have a confession," I say. I should tell her what I feel about her, right now. I don’t think she knows, but she should. How I adore her. How I think she’s brilliant. How I’ve mapped out her body. The ankle constellation looks like Cassiopeia, let me trace it for you. The shoulder one looks like Sagittarius, the Archer, see. And then there’s a single tiny spot, the North Star maybe, that only appears when you pull your hair up: right...there.
She’ll give me a look, a what? What are you talking about? She’ll smile maybe, or she’ll roll her eyes and say I’m weird - or very weird. And I’ll explain that at least one person should know her this well. Then I’ll stop, and look away.
But not today.
"I have a confession," instead, "I listen to records I don’t like alot more than records I like."
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