I’d just been to Goodwilland the recycling center when I pulled up beside the other Lauren returning from a run. I was feeling light, blithe with the lifted weight of unwanted stuff dropped off and I let the car idle while we talked through the open window. I had finally finished applying to grad schools and the horizon past the low uplands north toward Tontitown was purpler than usual, colored by some unknown front. With the engine chugging, the car light and primed to drive, I talked freely with the other Lauren about dogs, laptop problems, cookies and champagne. Everything I said was right and everything she said was right too, and the sun dipped beckoning me to keep being free, to indulge the illusion of a profligacy of options, to live in endless evening just words and Laurens and burning gas.
The Other Lauren