During my junior year of college, I was thumbing through a women’s magazine at the dentist’s office when I came across a love quiz containing the following question: “You know you’re in love with him because…”
The pineapple was flying! It paused at the pinnacle of its arc, weightless, and then began its descent—slow, sinking, faster, faster—finally landing with a thump into the tall grass beside the road.
Sometimes, I’ll put down the window as I drive to the shops and force as much wind into me as I can, until it burns my nose and puffs out my cheeks like I have a mouthful of marbles.