the beginning, her smaller script taking over where I had run out of room.
Take the person you call first on a real date. No pretending it’s just hanging out.
Beneath it were two sets of initials.
NL in her handwriting.
EM in mine.
Both crossed out.
I stared at them until the letters seemed to separate from meaning. Then I reached for the page, careful not to pull it from her hand. I remembered writing her initials while she was in the kitchen during the last week of classes,
