That day, she had jokingly, in an exercise of character acting, avoided pronouncing Riley’s name near the word “death” or at the graveyard or while dressed as Eucliwood, lest she kill him. It isn’t true, at least not in Paris’s case, that you can sense what the future holds. In the nineties, she felt - and you should fill in for yourself a kind of longing here - something melancholy, plaid, flannel, but not overwrought. That morning, Paris had watched reruns of Martin and laughed at a character’s plea for a wish sandwich. She was listening to “Say My Name,” attached as she was to all things nineties, even though she was nineteen and had been born after Tupac and Biggie were already dead. She called Riley Fuzzy Lumpkins, and he called her Bubbles. She called her sketchbooks a collection of heads, for she never drew bodies, and anyway, Paris was lighthearted and laughed frequently, showing the gap between her teeth, not nearly as morbid as her job and curated heads make her sound.
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