After forkfuls of Lasagna Fritta, Breana and I are punch
drunk on garlic and raspberry lemonade. I turn
sixteen tomorrow, and we are here because we live
in the Midwest and this is the kind of place we come
when we have something to celebrate. We get a shit-ton
of breadsticks, speak into them like microphones. In between
waiter visits, we host our own talk show. Behind us,
the fireplace burns artificial flames. We glitter
with simulated glow. We talk about Hayley Williams’s yellow
bangs, tell stories of girls who can actually change
color. She pulls out my gift— an oversized handbag
she picked out at Target. It is electric purple, like her
favorite Sharpie that she uses to write out our playlists
on CDs. Greed crackles like Pop Rocks under my tongue.
I pretend that I can’t accept it, but of course I do. Here,
it is OK to take too much. Here, everything is bottomless—
no matter how much I take, there is always more.
