everything i've made up about you
Melissa Ferrick sings, "I love everything about you and I don't even know you. Well, I hope everything I've made up about you is true."
And I've wondered what her name is. Does it suit her? If so, she must be an Angelica or a Zoey or a Delilah. A Nadia. She could surprise me, though, and come up with something plain like Jane or Melissa or Susan. I am, in truth, anticipating a J-name. All of the other women in my life were named Jessica. Jeanne. Jarta. Jalice. Jennifer. Jamie.
I wonder if she's as confident as her walk implies. You should have seen this walk. Never in a million years would I have latched this walk to that girl. I had seen her a few times already, but pegged her more as the shy, insecure type. The quiet apologetic. The socially-awkward version of a she-bachelored naturalist. Imagine my shock when, without thinking, I ducked into the hallway to watch until she was out of sight.
That is so not like me.
This making-up details, though, is. I wonder what her voice sounds like. Is it broad enough to fill her coluptuos frame? Will she be as at-ease with me, over eggplant parmigiana and existentialism, as she was when I peeked through the back door and watched her relaxed laugh?
I imagine her waking early, reading the paper or her scriptures or the overnight e-mail. I see toast and a fruit juice, plain soap, Gucci clothes. Underneath this scene runs an as-yet-undetermined soundtrack. (John Coltrane? Carole King? Neutral Milk Hotel? Bach?) She looks in the mirror once -- just before she leaves -- brushes the palms of both hands briskly down the front of her skirt, straightens up, adjusts her sunglasses.
I see her driving to work, watching the sun as it spills to the valley floor. She's listening to NPR or news radio or something similarly sterile and thinking about yellow-blue puddles of sunlight. I wonder if she writes -- if she keeps a small, black leather volume tucked into her glove compartment or sock drawer. Does she, instead, read comic books when she thinks no one is watching? Has she ever been dirty in the garden? Does she sweat?
An office job? Most likely. Cubicle? Perhaps. Her days may be as grey-lined as her clothing, but I think J-name has a big secret. A collection. An obsession. A confession. A passion. Shee's not as wealthy as she wishes, but she gets along fine and she knows her neighbors' names and she sometimes forgets it's Christmas.
She graduated early from college, then jumped quickly into grad school, but never finished. She has lots of sisters and calls her parents by their first names. She wears a nice watch (it was a gift) and carries a stack of books and papers in her left hand when she walks.
(There's more, but it seems silly to keep imagining when I'm just going to ask her on Sunday. Ask her all of it. And more.)
And I've wondered what her name is. Does it suit her? If so, she must be an Angelica or a Zoey or a Delilah. A Nadia. She could surprise me, though, and come up with something plain like Jane or Melissa or Susan. I am, in truth, anticipating a J-name. All of the other women in my life were named Jessica. Jeanne. Jarta. Jalice. Jennifer. Jamie.
I wonder if she's as confident as her walk implies. You should have seen this walk. Never in a million years would I have latched this walk to that girl. I had seen her a few times already, but pegged her more as the shy, insecure type. The quiet apologetic. The socially-awkward version of a she-bachelored naturalist. Imagine my shock when, without thinking, I ducked into the hallway to watch until she was out of sight.
That is so not like me.
This making-up details, though, is. I wonder what her voice sounds like. Is it broad enough to fill her coluptuos frame? Will she be as at-ease with me, over eggplant parmigiana and existentialism, as she was when I peeked through the back door and watched her relaxed laugh?
I imagine her waking early, reading the paper or her scriptures or the overnight e-mail. I see toast and a fruit juice, plain soap, Gucci clothes. Underneath this scene runs an as-yet-undetermined soundtrack. (John Coltrane? Carole King? Neutral Milk Hotel? Bach?) She looks in the mirror once -- just before she leaves -- brushes the palms of both hands briskly down the front of her skirt, straightens up, adjusts her sunglasses.
I see her driving to work, watching the sun as it spills to the valley floor. She's listening to NPR or news radio or something similarly sterile and thinking about yellow-blue puddles of sunlight. I wonder if she writes -- if she keeps a small, black leather volume tucked into her glove compartment or sock drawer. Does she, instead, read comic books when she thinks no one is watching? Has she ever been dirty in the garden? Does she sweat?
An office job? Most likely. Cubicle? Perhaps. Her days may be as grey-lined as her clothing, but I think J-name has a big secret. A collection. An obsession. A confession. A passion. Shee's not as wealthy as she wishes, but she gets along fine and she knows her neighbors' names and she sometimes forgets it's Christmas.
She graduated early from college, then jumped quickly into grad school, but never finished. She has lots of sisters and calls her parents by their first names. She wears a nice watch (it was a gift) and carries a stack of books and papers in her left hand when she walks.
(There's more, but it seems silly to keep imagining when I'm just going to ask her on Sunday. Ask her all of it. And more.)