“Hardly?” she asked, knocking on the door of my office.
“Halsted,” I prompted.
She smiled. “Close.”
Hardly, I thought.
The best part of hearing stories about your boyfriend when he was younger is that you finally get to connect those wiggly dots, the ones that you couldn’t focus on until someone helped you see the line. Aha, you think. So that’s where that mischievous grin comes from.
Every time I get off the ferry in the city, I think about taking a taxi home. But I don’t do it. I wonder why I think about it every single time if I don’t do it. Now I’ll think about it because I’ve put words to it.