No Plot, No Problem Last Page

Girl is born. Father, black American. Mother, white American. Late 1960’s. Late. She sings, the little light skinned one. She is drawn toward languages and people with character. Her laugh is loud and during college she experienced a deep bias against girls who ate mainly salad. This gave her pause and angered her. Eat some fucking food, she might think or sometimes say. The competition in a (I almost said boarding house) sorority house is keen. Smiling, tugging cowboy boots up not quite under the bottom of a mini-skirt. Charming and lethal and steely, a casteless masquerade. Hopeless late night songs, trampling steps toward the phone. Oh, the wai, ai, ting, Tom Petty sings, is the hardest part. Then, or later, the shock of bodies loudly brushing up against itself. The breathing a frenetic dance between voluntary and, involuntary. With any luck at all, a full moon or a dark night, there would be less than a little thinking. Just woozy and amorous. More college. More men. Exotic locations and black cars. Long soundtracks and puckery first time experiences. Hangovers and hordes of fried food. Predictable and delicious. Here she sits at the real estate desk at 33 wondering about it. Still unaware of herself settling instead for a compulsory education in personality. How to assume one and with whom. All of this is plot. Or is it?