2002-06-22 || 7:26 p.m.

|| on the first day of summer, this is what it was like for you. ||

you keep clasping your hands and spinning in the kitchen. you do three loads of laundry in rapid succession because you can. you shout at new neighbors from across the street whenever you go outside because you always wanted neighbor-friends, the kind who come over sunday nights to watch bad television. you are super-friendly. you talk in a sing song voice and end your words in exclamation points. when your new roommates question you on this you get very excited and say 'but they're our age! but we can play ball in the street and sit on each other's porches!'

in your room you lift the dust ruffle of your freshly moved-in queen sized to say sweet things to the pissed-off cat, who incidentally happens to be your best friend in the house. you do this while there are people over. you do this while in the living room there are new roommates and friends drinking cheap cheap wine and eating strawberries from tiny unpacked ceramic bowls starting boggle without you because you beat them every time (star words include "limpid" and "lipid," which you look up in the webster's unabridged just to show off). who have learned from a loud mouth new roommate while you were in your room talking to the cat that your old secret code word for sex with an ex-boyfriend was boggle. who rub this in and make jokes every time you start up a new round. and you can't feeling a bit smug and blushy because you are bancroft way boggle champion, using up all your best moves in the space of one filled glass of questionable merlot.

you stay up until 2:47 in the morning lying on the carpet in your new house as people talk over you, watching words move slowly across the room like smoke. you lift your head every once in a while to study the faces pushing these words into the air, to study the molding of this house, the empty spots where your framed pictures of dogs and horses and battered sea ships will go.

you sleep in the house although you didn't think to bring pajamas. you are a bit nervous about the possibility of ghosts and the uncovered window over looking street but smile in the dark when the two cats have congregated in this room, your room, and feel safe enough to get out from the secret places to walk all over your sleepy aching happy head.

you are terribly tired of moving. you come back to the apartment to check phone messages and sigh at the absolute unmoved state of the kitchen. you notice the way dust and cat hair have collected to outline where the bed once was, the desk, the plaid couch.

you want it to be over. you want it all to start.

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