The Professional

Hi, my name's Nikkita, I'm a professional of dying alone-

I'M AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN WHAT DON'T NEED NO MAN-

Cool your jets, kid. Anyway. I've discussed this with my mom, who by this point in her own life was working on her second child and moving in with her previous child's father. But she was in San Francisco, not Mormon country. Different times.

Anyway.

Over summer break before embarking on my final semester of school my mom pulls me aside and asks me if I want to get married. Seriously, Do I? And I say sure. Kids. Husband. Sounds great. I'm open to possibility. She gives me a meaningful look and asks if there are any men left to get married. And I can think of all the statistics I've heard, how currently a quarter of my school is married and fifty percent of the graduating student body is married. But all I can say is I don't really know mom.

At this point with the weather turning cold and graduation coming up it's easier to see the horizon of my life. I can imagine coming home to a small space, somewhere with lots of sunshine and good wood floors and a white comforter. Having lots of books and good tea to drink before bed and enough money to nurture a record addiction. I can be happy with that.

Of course I can't tell her that. It probably isn't even worth mentioning that I can't be interested in anyone that doesn't have the passionate soul of an artist or the hands of a laborer.

I don't know mom. To some it is given.