moment drifts back down into awkward non-conversation.
I reach, after a few silent seconds. I say how I just don't get the appeal of that song. I say, Angie, my roommate, she loves it. Listens to it on repeat like an hour a day. I point my thumb back over my shoulder where I think Angie is still milling around. Glory looks over my shoulder. Her face makes a face that's surprised and excited.
She says, wait, who's your roommate? I turn and look and say, Angie, the redhead.
She touches my arm then, just over the elbow. Her fingers: so soft and so cool. She's your roommate? she says, and still looking down, I say, sure, but I'm not really paying attention. I'm trying to memorize every pixel of what her hand looks like on my arm, trying to figure out if her nails are painted purple or blue.
She asks, what's she like? so I look up and tell her what she’s like. I look into her eyes, and I tell her she's amazing. Her eyes are blue like the blue in pictures of glaciers. I tell Glory what I think about her. I tell her right to her face. I tell her she's fun and she's funny. She’s kind. I tell her she’s beautiful. She's the kind of beautiful where, if you stand there next to her, it makes you feel beautiful, too. I tell her all the good things I can think of: how she's smart and she's brave, how she works so hard and cares so much, but she can