pigtails.

Sunday, June 17, 2007, 3:19 am

pigtails.

Remember that time we walked back to my house from Brookline. I promised to drive you home to J.P. once we got there. Hand in hand, just 2 minutes into our walk,, you yelled at this cab driver "Don't move that car!" as he watched us pass by. I could not stop laughing as he had not even stepped into the vehicle, but you explained how paranoid you were that he would gun it in drive, when he might think he was in reverse, running us poor girls over. I stood by my previous statement that he was not even in the car yet. You just couldn't help yourself.

You were so happy that we are both fast walkers and we wonder why everyone isn't. You are president of the "Could you walk any fucking slower?" club, and I am its only member.

This tricky intersection was coming up at Comm. Ave, and we discussed our strategy. It was around this time that everything you were saying made me think of Stevi and how I felt like I've known her almost as long as I've known you. You kept telling me that you loved *us*. And I love us too. I loved it when earlier tonight you played with my pigtails and told me it was because you wanted to play with your own but that would look weird. You picked mine up instead. *You can play with mine if you want* and I took your not so subtle hint. For 5 seconds, we stood across from each other twirling each others' pigtails, before finally bursting into laughter. I liked my hair better and wondered if that was mean.

So, we approached the scary intersection by Comm. Ave and you were terrified of the median. I am so glad one of us was not inebriated since you were freaking out. You're ok. You're ok. The crosswalk is right there. Ten minutes in, and we are on the BU bridge, taking a little break to enjoy the view. I loved it when you gave me too much information, even though the sober you never wants to hear such things from me.

Standing there, looking out at the Boston Skyline, lights bouncing off the Charles, I thought how this could potentially be a romantic moment, but instead it was just me and my best friend. And that tonight, that was so much better. Talking about boys and life and love, I took your hand once again, ready to walk. You said you loved how I knew that we needed to switch and I agreed that I was definitely on the wrong side.

Down Putnam Ave, you tripped on the sidewalk. You said you are so lucky that you were holding my hand or you would have been face first into that person's yard. It was the first time in a while that I've heard *I love you Abby* so much in one evening and I will cherish it for a bit. You were amazed at how organized my closet is compared to the rest of my room, and I explained that it's bit of a process.

Twenty-six years we've been friends and as we got into my car, you asked me if we were fucked up. I asked what you meant and you told me to just answer the question. I don't envy you right now. I don't. Two summers ago, you were barging in on me and Tom, telling me that I was going to get married before you. And now, I'm out of the race. I feel kind of free.

I promised to teach you some tennis, and you told me more times how I'm the cutest person you know. I wondered about what my summer would hold and you reminded me that I am a playa. I watched you trip again, this time walking onto your front stoop, and then I turned up Coldplay for the ride home.