We’re trying for a babysitter. Angelina shows up in white pants, a gauzy blouse, and delicate sandals; even the condensation on her iced coffee looks curated. I walk her into the yard to meet my children, who are playing restaurant—filling Tupperwares with mud, leaves, sticks. They delight at the new patron.
I don’t regret anything, but when Angelina texts me later—I don’t think it’s a fit—I say: I totally understand! What I want to write is: Become an accountant. Learn to code. Open a haberdashery. Do not do this; it won’t end well for your white pants.
