In the before times, Decemberish, I sat across from a college-aged girl at a biscuit place at 9-something on a Saturday morning. I found myself staring at her with envy a level of which I haven’t experienced since I was a co-ed. She was annoyingly girl-next-door gorgeous in that way terrible authors try to describe in novels: long brown hair, nice eyes, slim and dressed in an outfit that said I found this at the thrift store, and golly, I guess it just happens to be fashionable. Her Saturday morning eyeliner was better than any Friday night eyeliner I’ve ever managed. Her hair did that thing where she ran her hands through it and it cascaded back into place. According to the barista, her name was Savannah, because of course it was.
“Do you want to split a hashbrown?” Savannah shakes her head at her male companion, a lanky hipster type I imagine is called Kellen, or Tyler.
My husband sits down, blocking my view, handing me my own plate of sizzling fried potato. We do not share carbs.
Oh, Savannah. Don’t you cry for me.

Shannon J. Curtin is the author of two collections of poetry and her work has been featured in a variety of literary magazines. She holds an MBA, competitive shooting records, and her liquor. She would probably like you. You can find her at

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