Jumping up and down in her red skinny jeans, she turned the volume on her iPod on full blast.
"I just can't listen to this quiet, it's a song you have to hear loud," she said to me, raising her voice over the lyrics, bleached blonde hair falling into her eyes. We both sang.
"Is that what you call tact?
You're as subtle as a brick in the small of my back, so let's end this call, and end this conversation.
And is that what you call a getaway?
Well tell me what you got away with. . . "
I ate soup as she flipped through songs and sat knitting at the newly cleaned kitchen table. Her sweater was an off-white color and had "shut up" written in black cursive font across her chest. Around her neck on a long chain was a crystal- she loved crystals and found them to be very beautiful. Her boyfriend lived in Toronto. She didn't eat meat. And her cats name was BreadLoaf. She smoked Camel lights, or "blues". Her laugh was boisterous and would sail across the room.
Again we shared a nostalgic moment with a song we both used to scream out car windows in high school, a moment where we remembered singing along to it with a girl who used to be our best friend. We both knew all the words, when each chorus would start, and familiarized ourselves with the feelings each line would convey then and now. And afterwards, she would go back to knitting. I would go back to eating soup.
She let me into her world where I found a piece of my own inside.
It felt comfortable and relaxing, like those days back when you were sixteen and your friend was driving with the windows down, wind blowing through your hair, fingers tapping on your knees, sunshine on your face.
