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We imagined the day the meteor struck what was now my backyard, how the shrapnel must have blown through the air like dandelion seeds, how that day had been buried by time and dirt, only to be sifted back to the surface by a biblical flood.
She didn’t wear makeup, never had, in part because no one had taught her, until that summer when the wall went red and her lips along with it, when she perfected the art of applying red lipstick. M.A.C. Lady Danger, I think it was. She rarely left home without it past sunset. She was 25.
It is Saturday night and I just texted Cait, tomorrow’s self-imposed deadline hot on my mind: “I don’t know what to write about.” A minute passed, and then a chirp. “Write about the mattress.” It’s not a bad idea. The mattress is a good story.