A week before my wedding, Anna called and said, “I'm in love with my palm reader.”
We had overlapped, in love simultaneously.
I ear-hugged the phone, yanked out the laundry, separated Steve's darks from whites. I folded his boxers into squares. Our bedroom held a bunch of used cups, rubbers plants, boxes and boxes covered in summery dust.
Outside: neighbors barbequing, inflatable pools, discussion on newly acquired anxieties.
“I often worry that people are watching me!”
“I often worry that people are avoiding me, frequently!”
I told myself I truly was in love. Twitterpated and doe-eyed.
Anna described her palm reader and I said, frankly, “Anna, girly, you have a palm reader?” As if it were as common as having a hairstylist or dentist.
“She's just so, how do I phrase it? Gentle,” Anna said.