Instead of walking toward a stall, I go to the mirror. Ethan has seen me thousands of times—at my absolute best and complete worst. Still, I fuss with my hair and check my makeup. Brown hair still brown, lower lip still bigger than upper lip, one ear still a millimeter higher than the other. Makeup in place. I look down at my red shirt, happy I remembered clothes to change into. I didn’t want to greet Ethan in my sensible blouse and gray slacks. It’s possible I chose this color for a reason…
After all our years together, physical appearance falls low on the yardstick by which we measure one another. We’d made mud pies together, scraped our knees on the harsh asphalt of the street we grew up on, and spent days cooped up together while we battled chicken pox. Our pain, happiness, heartbreaks, and successes are wrapped up within each other, intertwined in a way only time can accomplish.
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