“I should have been born in the 1920s,” she said, her hands deftly weaving the daisies together in a chain.
She often said things like this, out of the blue. It was like she had a whole closet of unusual statements and each day she picked one to wear. Before, she had proclaimed, innocently, in her way, that she should have been an astronaut, or that she should have been the daughter of gypsies.
I never knew how to respond to these. Once I tried to say that it was good she wasn’t, because then she wouldn’t be my friend. She had glared at me. Her glares weren’t something you ever wanted to see; she would flip her hair and lock her jaw and stare at you like you were the stupidest person on the planet.
Today, I just murmured in agreement and laid my head back down in the grass. I looked up at the sky, a light, airy blue, and at the clouds that dotted it. It was a warm day in June, the start of summer. We weren’t doing much of anything, just laying in the shade and waiting for something to happen, I suppose. She threaded flowers into crowns to keep her hands busy, occasionally offering a few words to break the drowsy silence. And I, I just lay there watching the clouds, looking for shapes and letting my mind wander.