At twenty-seven, YouTube sensation Ben Leonards is married to his work. If he's not whipping up lasagna with a side of science experiments, he's running statistical analysis of bitcoin during explosive behavior periods.
When a friend asks him to org...
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She looks different enough that I might've passed by her on the street and not known it's her. The 'find ten differences' pictures in the 'Highlights' magazine I loved as a child help because I spot the first five things from that one glance. Her hair, makeup, shoes, clothes, and jewelry—the most superficial ways to change a person, but I see their power. If she'd opened her mouth and started to speak French right now, I would be less surprised than I am when she speaks in the old Amielie's voice.
"May I come in?"
The formality of the request triggers the assembly line of the required etiquette, and I stretch my lips in a smile, step aside, clearing the entry into my house, one of her feet is making a maiden voyage into. The foot is clad in a high heel shoe—one. He dress—two— grazes the knee and swishes around as if there's wind, while the day is still and balmy. Her whole body is inside the foyer now.
She lifts her head and the long earrings—three—make a jangling noise as she looks around. I inspect her features: the bridge of her nose, the shape of her eyes, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the almost pointed chin are as symmetrical as when I've watched her laugh at the bar six years ago. I marvel at the impossibly perfect proportions of her face—an abnormality in the human race and yet what we base our definition of beauty on.
The makeup—four— gives her face the polish and grace she didn't use to have, and maybe it's not a bad change, but I would prefer to see her face naked, without it, every trace that is covering up my Amelie washed away.
Her hair is lighter, and it's the most jarring change of all—five. It's also artificially straight because I've seen Amelie drying her wavy hair many times before, ran my fingers through the slight curls, looked at them fanning around her pillow when she slept.
Her eyes. I stare into the dark brown, and she's staring back. The direct line between us can be measured by the distance between her irises and mine and it is too long. I take a step towards her.
"Are you going to close the door, or are we expecting someone else?" She says, and I drop my gaze, turn around, close the door and lean on it.
Her voice is the same, and it's comforting that she's in there somewhere, my old Amelie.
"There's so much space—it makes total sense why you offered it for the baby shower," she says. I close my eyes, listening, and seeing the Amelie I knew before, in jeans, a t-shirt, with messy waves, and no-makeup or jewelry. It's that Amelie, my Amelie, who keeps talking. "We can fit a lot of people into your great room. Is it OK if I go see the kitchen?"
Her heels click on the tile of the foyer, then the sound changes to a dull clop, and I know she's on the wood of the living room, it's muffled more—the carpet, crossing the sitting area—wood again and tile again. She's in the kitchen.
"It's magnificent and so open, and there's so much space."
