sister act

I thought today was Monday. Or Tuesday. Thought yesterday was my best friend’s birthday. Called her in LA. To be honest I’m still not quite sure if it was or not.

We gossiped. I generally consider her to be the queen of that category therefore making my darker parts pleased when I can supply some. So we caught up on the usual from who is sleeping with whom to who is pregnant and how those lives and ours, both the current and former versions of all of the above, intertwine. I was just about to tell her where one of our closest mutual friends stood on all of it when she announced she was at the salon and she thinks she has to go because they have got to wash her hair out or whatever. She really said whatever.

We have always looked a little alike. One of us probably insulted when asked if we were sisters. She is not Italian and Puerto Rican, but Lebanese. I mention this because she is blonde now. That is what she was doing at the salon. Going what looked like five shades lighter than the last time I saw her. I mean, it is white. Or so it looked in the text I got later that day.

I love it on her.
It’s like she is trying to divorce her DNA.

We don’t know our fathers and we are only children standing in as siblings for one another. I took the therapy route. She didn’t. We both exist in certain states of arrest. Me in the restaurant, a sick yet certain safe zone in the avoidance of success. Her having pursued her career dreams but finding the safety of self inflicted punishment in the realm of relationships. I’ve tried to divorce my DNA in different ways as well, sure. Moreover, I have tried to divorce her on countless occasions, the mirror simply being too much. Too tactile, too sharp around the edges, too fragile, too distorted, too everything.

 

Tasha is trying to step into the light and getting closer all the time.

Tasha takes classes with Valley.