There's this picture on Facebook. He's standing in profile, wearing khakis and a tie. His hands are in his pockets, the hem of his blazer casually rumpled, one of those boy-details that has always undone me. And he's craning his neck, looking upwards at the shelves that fill the room. The caption — written by his sister, who’s studying divinity at Yale — tells me he’s looking at rare books in the Yale Club library.
I spent my first two years of college convinced, utterly convinced that this was the boy I was destined to marry. This picture, could I have seen it back then, would have done nothing to soften that conviction.
Morgan, as usual, sums it up best: “I can actually hear the sound of your 18-year-old underpants exploding from across the space-time continuum.”
