Thu, 19 May 2005

called out
1990.

Pamela bought a wedding dress at a garage sale and didn’t ask the woman who sold it to her what had happened, but the whole drive back she speculated on possible trajectories the garage sale woman, the woman with little stars on her fingernails and bruises on her wrists must have followed to need money bad enough to sell a wedding dress. Sometimes you sell things just to get rid of them, and if you’re gonna throw ‘em out you might as well get a few bucks for ‘em, I said, but Pamela was already on about what kinda wedding it would be if everything was bought secondhand. She was already wriggling into the dress, her flimsy fauxhippie number balled up on the floor and flashes of her raggedy cotton panties caught in the corner of my right eye as I swerved to miss a kid on a bike. You best hope that’s been dry cleaned, I said, and she asked why and I told her to think about it and she looked at me like I was cancelling Christmas. I don’t give a fuck what you say, she said. If I have to go to the fucking mall with you I’m gonna wear my wedding dress.
(12:23.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #