Humming absentmindedly to Celine Dion’s, “My Heart Will Go On,” and lathering up my hair with handfuls of cream rinse, I hear a banging on my warped plywood door, again and again, a couple more times.
And she looks like she’s about to melt she’s so in love.
She collapses onto my balcony and tells me how he holds her tight.
How he wraps his arms around he as they watch the lightning together and he smells so good.
How he takes her hand softly, and how she just can’t believe most of all, that he likes her too.
And I sit there drenching wet in my hot pink bath towel feeling the conditioner slowly collapse into my hair, laughing, and exclaiming and swooning over her love story.
Because that’s true friendship I’ve learned.
It’s the way I ran into her room at three in the morning after hearing the worst ghost story of all possible time.
And we crammed three or four of us, oh-so-mature college students into one bed to huddle together and avoid the scary stuff.
And we sang songs, and told bad jokes, and happy stories until things looked like they’d be okay again.
Pui’s the one that always knocks on my door for lunch, or for dinner, or for really late waking up at four in the evening breakfasts.
Or whenever she’s run out of chocolate milk.
Because friends, they do that kind of thing, they are always there for each other, no matter the time nor the circumstances or the two day late comparative politics homework.
Sunbathing in the nude, and jumping fully clothed into swimming pools
A bit of true friendship that’s waterproof and sun warped.