“Do you have cotton balls to take that pretty polish off, sweetheart?” she asked.Fuck me, I thought. “No, I don’t,” I replied.“No problem,...honey, stay right here and I’ll have them bring a bag up front,” she said.Before I could respond to her, she was on a PA asking someone by the name of Aly to bring a bag of cotton balls to the cash register. I’m not sure where Aly was, but it seemed like it took her an eternity to reach the front of the store and when she did, I instantly knew why this. Because there's always another moment. People talk about bottling up a moment in time or preserving a thought in amber: this is mine.While I wait for the sun to shine again, I thumb the notepaper.I feel the fuzziness of the note's edges. Consider the blue pen she used. Where she sat when she wrote it. Her stylized handwriting, where the letter "a" resembles a "2." How the descenders on the "g" and "y" drop down almost two lines. The backward slant of the letters –- like she's a left-hander who. More

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