This is a confession.
On my twenty-first birthday, that night when I walked into your dorm, that night you walked down the stairs like a holy jean wearing Scarlett O’Hare, I wanted to unwrap you.
We’re among friends here, right?
We walked to the coffee shop off campus, the one with viennas and turtle cheesecake. You took your napkin, unfolding it delicately. With the ballpoint pen that served as your Psalm marker you wrote, “Am I a Baptist?” a secret whispered on a napkin in a den of disbelief. A secret translated, “I could love you.” You asked if we could pray.
You unwrapped me first.
In the end, you are not Baptist and that’s probably best. You are less holy jeans and pixie haircuts, although both have made comebacks. You are certainly a southern accent, but not a Scarlett one.
Eleven years in. I want to keep unwrapping. I want to memorize you.