Marisal.
That was her name.
“If you like, you can call me Sally. Some people can’t say Marisal. They keep saying Marisol and then they’re embarrassed when I correct them. If you’d like you can call me Sally.”
That’s what she’d said. Carol didn’t call her Sally. She drank her wine and they talked, and Carol found her lovely in all ways, and it was strange to be so smitten with a woman because she’d never really had one of those things.
Those “girl crushes.”
It started with their first meeting. Carol sat at the coffee shop and Marisal saw the lines of poetry she was trying to analyze and she’d leaned over her shoulder, her hair tickling Carol’s neck and said, “You’re thinking in English and you have to think like an Italian to understand that phrase.”
That was the first meeting. That was it. Twenty seconds. The taste of cappuccino in Carol’s mouth and Italian poetry in her head, which was probably apropos. The second meeting was three days later when Marisal sat across from her while she sat at the bar. That meeting, the second, lasted two days.
And Carol believe their third meeting had just started but it had been a very long time, and now it was winter and heavy clothes obscured things enough that at first Carol wasn’t sure it was her. She looked without trying to appear like she was looking.
It had to be her.
It had to be.
That was her name.
“If you like, you can call me Sally. Some people can’t say Marisal. They keep saying Marisol and then they’re embarrassed when I correct them. If you’d like you can call me Sally.”
That’s what she’d said. Carol didn’t call her Sally. She drank her wine and they talked, and Carol found her lovely in all ways, and it was strange to be so smitten with a woman because she’d never really had one of those things.
Those “girl crushes.”
It started with their first meeting. Carol sat at the coffee shop and Marisal saw the lines of poetry she was trying to analyze and she’d leaned over her shoulder, her hair tickling Carol’s neck and said, “You’re thinking in English and you have to think like an Italian to understand that phrase.”
That was the first meeting. That was it. Twenty seconds. The taste of cappuccino in Carol’s mouth and Italian poetry in her head, which was probably apropos. The second meeting was three days later when Marisal sat across from her while she sat at the bar. That meeting, the second, lasted two days.
And Carol believe their third meeting had just started but it had been a very long time, and now it was winter and heavy clothes obscured things enough that at first Carol wasn’t sure it was her. She looked without trying to appear like she was looking.
It had to be her.
It had to be.
