There must be a million seeds in this tiny little orange.
It is going to rain. I am thinking about a boy who doesn’t love me plucking eggshells out of my hair. It was the first time I’d ever been to a football game, yesterday, and I’d brought an umbrella and I had a bunch of little oranges with me in my purse, and I’d worn these gorgeous, but impractical, three-inch-heeled boots. Everything gorgeous is impractical, and everything impractical is gorgeous. Because baby, don’t you know anything about life? he said to me once, It’s gorgeous, it’s impractical, it’s boring, it’s for the old people, is what it is. It’s something you look back on, not something you actually live.
As if you knew anything, I snorted. He never knew anything, just sat around all day and brooded and watched traffic from his fifth-story window as if he did.
Oh, baby, why do you always have to be like that? I’m being serious now, you’re always like that, don’t sit there blowing smoke in my face, and don’t look at me like that.
Like what?
Like that.
