[dropcap]O[/dropcap]f all the places in all the world, we first met in a bookstore. She asked me where the bathrooms were, saying, “Jeezus, I’ve gotta pee like a racehorse.”

The first thing you should know about her is that she’s an animated speaker who uses her hands when she talks. And everything she says is tinted with a hint of pissiness, like she’s close to losing her already short temper.

During our first chance meeting, we talked about life, trivial things. We talked about fashion, good versus evil; and George Jones versus the the idiocy that passes for modern-day country music.

The first thing I noticed was her affliction for telling the truth. It’s a curse. And that isn’t to say she doesn’t care what you think about her. She most certainly does. It’s just that God didn’t give her the ability to blow much smoke. This problem is only made worse when she pours a few drinks down her gullet.

You’ll just have to take my word for that.

She looks awkward in dresses, most tom-girls do. Without her glasses on she looks like a raccoon missing his mask. Her hair is flawless, so is her Creek Indian skin. Her ears are big like her daddy’s. Her eyes look sad even when they’re happy, just like his did. She owns an unerring set of tastebuds; the woman would rather die than eat food that isn’t worth dying for. She’s tall, she can lift a metric ton, and she bruises easily — both inside and out. When she cries it feels like the whole world turns black and gray, swallowing up the sun.

It’s not every day you meet someone you love in a bookstore.

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