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(Girls love to be unlike other girls, because of the lies we are told about what other girls are like.)
Now when I put a dish in the microwave for thirty seconds I am paralyzed by the discomfort of unorganized time. Is thirty seconds enough to read something? Check the weather? Pee? I reach for anything to occupy me, but now I’ve spent all of my time wondering how I should spend it, and the machine beeps, and I have purpose again.
Death was for goldfish and grandmothers, disappearance was for fathers and fortunes. Girls like us would only go on forever.
I wonder if the weaker heart slows to mirror the stronger, or if the stronger softens for the weaker, or if both drift slowly together, toward a new rhythm neither has felt before.
