by Sophia Macris
Regardless, I was infatuated. Even if, inside, you were still the class president, you still walked a block from your house before lighting a cigarette, you still wanted your father to tell you your writing was good, I liked what you were trying to be. And I knew you wouldn’t stay. You left a girl to be with me, left her, bruised and battered at the age of nineteen, to a life of eating disorders and neuroses and self-doubt that no smart, pretty girl should ever have to face. Christ, she hated me so much; she’d glare at me across the dining hall, an unbecoming, childish scowl. And you went back to her three months later, just before Christmas.
Sophia Macris, author of Field Trip to Symi, likes Giorgio DeChirico, M.F.K. Fisher, and the smell of coffee wafting up from the kitchen on Christmas morning.