Far east of the stomping grounds of the cliques and the cubers, past the pilgrimage site of the brain dead (Starbucks), just out of sight from the seemingly sole fourth floor window, there is a hideaway thrift store behind a chipping green scaffolding. If you are ever lucky enough to make the trek a block beyond the subway station and you find yourself enthralled by the slightly musky odor, the meaningless bobbles and sequins weighing down even the simplest tank tops, the yellowing pages of the monologue books by the shoe rack, don't be afraid. This is the normal reaction. Well, normal for J2 and I, anyway.
Someone asked me today, over Milky Way Midnights and a deck of cards, just where she fits into my life. What cracks does she caulk? they wanted to know. Immediately, I told them, "The secrets, when the insides of our eyelids are too infuriating to look at for us to fall asleep. The sadness, when a piano chord or an old jacket can make us start crying again." Looking at J2 today, perusing the flounces and frills and faded neon as I giggled, spinning around in the gray lace number, I realized I forgot something. "The everyday, when my hand feels a little cold and I need someone to hold it."
This is beautiful. I read it, and my heart seemed to break a little inside.
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