By wajidali on Skatehive
For every, really, every single thing she’d ever done: every movement, moment, choice that had ever really been hers—the nights, days, springs, summers, winters, falls, or sorry autumns, all the PG–13s and the Xs and the Rs, for every kiss, man, cherry in season, leg spread, sundown, green sunrise, girl, movie, all her friends, every mind-blow, comedown, heartbreak, fever, holiday, her entire child- hood, meeting him, marrying him, the album coming out and seeing their two glossy faces looking sullen and impressive on the cover like anyone in the world would kill to be them—it was still so easy to believe that this thing she’d just done—just now, fifteen seconds ago, after he’d gone to bed, where she looked forward to him going all day every day, pawing across the kitchen, her feet definitely still bleeding, uncorking a bottle of Cave d’Irouleguy Gorri d’Ansa, which she was so in love with these days, every intention in the world of drinking it all to herself (which she did)—was the po