Nothing says love like dryer sheets from Natalie.
I’ve known many Natalies in my life—my mother, my father, every teacher and fiancée and bartender and artisanal garlic supplier I’ve ever had. Not one has ever given me dryer sheets—not even when I was inhaling marijuana the way a swimmer inhales massive gulpfuls of chlorinated water while he’s first learning the butterfly, and then again when his coach has deemed him skilled enough at the stroke to enter a 200-meter butterfly, even though he’s not, and I desperately needed something to mask the scent from a convention of police officers yearning to make a nice, media-friendly drug bust to distract the public from them having killed a few more unarmed black people.
What I’m saying is, I’ve never been loved. This is the closest I’ve ever felt, and I must extend my gratitude to this Natalie, so anonymous in her clear signature, for granting me this simulacrum of human connection. She truly is the tiny apple of humans.