Every Sunday, the British man brings his two very British children to the bookstore.
“Alastair! Beatrice! Let’s look at the books while we wait for Mumsy?” he asks. Beatrice, 2, kicks off her little crocs and tugs on her father’s arm to leave. She has a slight aversion to books, but for the moment, entertains distraction with picture books on princesses and pretty dresses. Alastair’s five year old head barely goes over the counter when he asks me if we have anything on Maisy or dump lorries. He smiles like he has a secret.
Someday, I want to be this family. I want to say “cupboard” instead of “closet.” I want to buy a jumper when it gets cold. I want to have seen Big Ben and the Statue of Liberty.
I think I’ve read too many Harry Potter books.
“Nobody likes you when you’re 23,” I say. Nine years ago, I greet my sister with Blink 182 lyrics on the morn of her birthday. I jump on her bed. I stick out my tongue. I am 14.
23 is a lot less funny now.