my fourth

[ursamajor]

sticky, peeling-off dresses; wet sand underneath our feet slapping towards the sea; mingling aromas of salt air and bonfires. the satin-black sky shimmers as the occasional firework streaks up and out.

we've just come from an elegant dinner: clean-cut genteel young waiters we could probably set up our baby sisters with, candlelight and picture-window views of york harbor, creamy lobster bisque and blueberry pie that melts in your mouth.

now, casting off any semblance of demure behavior, we run playfully towards the cool atlantic waters in the twilight, skirts hiked up, sandals cast aside.

it's not a waltz as recognized by our chichi fellow diners, but we dance anyway.



later, we will get lost in rural northeastern massachusetts, on a road that could only be transplanted from rural northwestern america. the walls of trees stretch infinitely upward, tall and black, bowing slightly inward to hide the sky beyond. the road curves darkly, desolately, with no turnoff for miles and miles.

(and we got lost because? we were distracted enough talking about harry potter that we failed to notice the swiftly-dipping gas needle. hee!)

eventually, we turn around, and after a series of rotaries and multiple right-turns, we find civilization in the form of a service station for our nearly-empty gas tank. and it's there that we have an Idea: what better way to cap off a night about america than to introduce one of my friends to the ultimate in pop-culture indulgence? a glance at the map, a quick calculation of exit numbers and one-ways, and we're in motion again.

gooey fingers as we pinch off bits of a krispy kreme fresh off the line. white creme daubs on unwary cheeks and giggling like middle school students. milk moustaches just like the ones in the commercials.

@--<--

happy birthday, laurel!

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