This is my dearest Prosperine. I park a car in a Target parking lot where we brood and eat almond butter from the jar with a spoon. We listen to Oasis on the car radio until she says that the car battery may die. I turn off the car and we sit in silence save the light pedestrian traffic and our exasperated sighs.
Ah, Lady Lillith. After a round of drinks at 2pm, I take her to David’s Bridal, where we try on the most expensive wedding gowns known to man. They are all repulsive. We then get iced coffees and stroll the lakeside walking path, naming every squirrel we see as we go.
Oh, Beata Beatrix. We go for a weekend in a Vermont B&B and invent a different identity every time we meet someone new. No one knows who we are. We get kicked out of the local community theater production for heckling stage actors in the lobby at intermission.
Ophelia. Beach. Caveat: no drowning.
She doesn’t have a name but she doesn’t need one. Women can do anything. She punches me in the face and then we sit in bed for a full day, where she just reads me excerpts from her favorite novels. I have no idea what they mean. I make us herbal tea, and she doesn’t drink it. I’m in love with her
The darling April Love. We break into an abandoned Lord & Taylor, where we record our first album. It sounds like shit.