A few years ago, I told my best friend happy birthday (on her actual birthday, not the fake one she tells people) and she flipped out at me because she couldn’t believe I knew her actual birthday. She was so confused, she didn’t even tell me thank you at first. It was all
Me: happy (real) birthday!
Her: wth, how in world, what, how, this isn’t possible, who are you and why do you know my birthday?!
I’m probably exaggerating, but that’s how I remember it in my head, and I laugh every time. :)
And now was as good a time as any to say that she was beautiful. In the dark beside me, she smelled of sweat and sunshine and vanilla, and on that thin-mooned night I could see little more than her silhouette except for when she smoked, when the burning cherry of the cigarette washed her face in pale red light. But even in the dark, I could see her eyes—fierce emeralds.