A few nights ago we got dinner at the place downstairs, beneath my spinach green carpet and mini Whirlpool fridge that hums at 4 in the morning. I did a little of my own fortune-telling.
You will have two sons, both of them gingers, because it turns out you have a recessive ginger gene. Also, your living room will have dark hardwood flooring.
Our fortune cookies came back, beige Americanized cookies of socioeconomic survival. They went a little something like this: it takes guts to get out of the ruts. And: keep your future plans secret for now.
Sounded about right. A few weeks ago, she’d ordered glasses online from a holy religious-affiliated shop online. The lenses came back with scripture on the sides. A sign, she said.
It’s the 16th of March. On the leftmost side of the street, where the police lights blinked and a ominous sideways bike lay, I freaked. It’s already halfway through March. Your birthday is next week. Wednesday, right? Numbers come shooting in my email. These percentages are startling. They’re trying to do the opposite of imposing pressure, but it’s still pressure imposed.
It’s still cold. In March. And I miss the summertime.
I miss our roadtrip. I miss visiting Six Flags.
I miss nibbling on overpriced funnel cake, with strawberries and slightly deflated whipped cream. I miss riding the seemingly nightmarish rollercoaster with the loops and new steel and rickety rockity crawl three times in a row.
I miss traipsing across the park twice, three times, through worlds and lines and ropes and cartoons. I miss the way summer clung to our faces, heady and exhilarated.