When I was eleven years old and in sixth grade, I climbed into the backseat of my mother’s Toyota Corolla after school. My best friend Jasmine was with me. We were in high spirits; we’d spent all day together and had plans that afternoon to play with my new purple and silver Poo-Chi and build a dream life on The Sims.
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I’m currently sitting at my computer. I’m fidgeting in my chair; the scratchy fabric is irritating the backs of my thighs. My mouse has been hovering over the same link for the last twenty-three minutes. My best friend Nikki forwarded it to me.
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Knowing you’re with her causes a violent reaction inside me. Thankfully I have enough self control not to allow the violence to escape. I’m a lover, not a fighter. You know that about me. It’s probably why you feel safe doing what we do.
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Apron strings. Controlling and relentless, irritating my neck with their cheap fabrics and frayed seams. They can also be smothering. Personally, I prefer to cook without one. It’s more freeing that way. I don’t own an apron and I don’t want one, either. So, for one to have found its way into my home uninvited is most perturbing.
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