The origins of love are stuck on you.

....are decidedly NOT on I-287. I should know. What should have been a 15-minute commute turned into a two-hour conversation with my radio antenna, as follows: "Radio Antenna, why don't you work? CD changer, why are you in the trunk? Mitsubishi, why do you squeal? Don't you know Mama loves you but it's all she can do to keep fire in your belly? Sweaty toned young running man, do you have a girlfriend? Cancerous right arm, what's going on? Unreturned emails and phone calls, where are my friends? Boys, why the attitude? Red Civic, THAT. IS. MY. BLEEPITY BLEEPITY. LANE!!!"

And so on.

But as I rounded Reservoir Road in Harrison and Jakob Dylan's "One Headlight" came on the radio, I thought of the long way home we used to take to look at the houses we'd pretend we could afford, breathing in that sweet heaviness of lilac and honeysuckle right when we curved towards the market around Rogers' Orchard. We made a deal about alternating songs on the radio, and you picked the same stupid pop-friendly hit every time, laughing because you knew my sense of fair dealing involved honoring my word. On that night, there were the same songs but sparklers and lemonade. Tonight, there's a thunderstorm and a front porch and a cold IPA. And my roommate just told me I look homeless, but that's probably because I pulled a roll out of my purse while running up our street, clicking my heels. Juli comes running out of her room with a frozen cup in hand and says, "Hark! Hark! The clouds are all a-blackened!" and I think, not a bad deal for a college girl.

In other news, my hair still curls before thunderstorms in that one spot above my right eyebrow.