would improve, how they'd be more helpful around the house, how proud Mother Teresa would be if she only knew, how they could get involved in community projects now that every waking moment wouldn't be consumed by thoughts of boys.
At the Halbergs' house, Meredith's older sister, Kirsten, was just pulling away from the curb in her ancient red Volkswagen. She waved at the girls and beeped her horn in greeting.
Meredith shook her head in disgust, looking after the departing car. "She's probably going to go pick up Jeff at work and then they'll go out to dinner and discuss wedding plans. That's all they do, she and Jeff. Wedding plans, wedding plans.
Sick.
"
"I remember that your sister was once a fine young woman," Anastasia said sadly. "Intelligent and ambitious."
"A waste of a young life," Meredith acknowledged mournfully.
Anastasia said goodbye and walked the remaining two blocks to her own house alone. She realized that she felt a little guilty. No, actually, she felt more than a little; she felt
massively
guilty. It was true that she had given up her pursuit of Steve Harvey. It was true that she, like her friends, would become a better person: more scholarly, more family-oriented, better read, more civic-minded and politically aware, now that she would not be wasting her time trying to get an idiotic seventh-grade boy to pay attention to her.
But
men?
That was something else again. She had not given up on SWM.
Anastasia had been calculating very carefully: the number of days it might take for her letter to reach New York; the number of minutes, maybe even an hour or two, for SWM to compose his reply; the number of days for his reply to make its way from Manhattan to the Krupnik mail slot in a Boston suburb.
It might—just
might
—be today.
She hurried up the steps to her house, opened the front door, and called, "Hello! I'm home!" at the same time that she was scattering the stacked mail on the hall table, looking for a letter addressed to Swifty.
But it was not there. Not yet.
Dear SWM,
I know that it is just the tiniest hit rude to write a second time when I have not yet received your answer to my first letter.
But I saw on the TV news (I am very interested in current events and things of international interest. like for example rumors of marital trouble between Charles and Diana) that a postal vehicle in New York collided with a truck carrying live chickens. Peter Jennings on the news made it sound like a funny event, and they showed pictures of live chickens running around the street, with people chasing them.
But I didn't find it at all amusing. For one thing, the chickens looked very scared and the people chasing them didn't look too thrilled either.
And also: Peter Jennings didn't even mention the possibility of mail getting lost as a result of that accident.
I thought I had better write again just in case my first letter was on that truck and got mixed in with all those chicken feathers and was lost.
Or maybe you are sick. The news also said that there's a lot of flu around. I really am concerned for you.
I want to tell you. also, that I did have a relationship in my life. I concealed it from you before. But now it is completely over, so it need not come between us in any way. His name was Steve. He was also a SWM.
Take aspirin and drink lots of liquids, if you have flu. It is okay to write letters even if you have a slight fever. My brother had a slight fever when he had chicken pox but he was able to do a lot of coloring and follow-the-dots with no problem.
Sincerely,
SWIFTY
(Single Waiting Impatient Female: Tall, Young)
3
It was a usual sort of Thursday evening dinner at the Krupniks' house. Anastasia's parents were arguing, in a friendly fashion, about a novel they had both been reading. Myron Krupnik was really an expert on books, since he was a professor of literature, so he made a long almost-speech, as if he were standing in front of his Harvard classroom, and he helped himself to
At the Halbergs' house, Meredith's older sister, Kirsten, was just pulling away from the curb in her ancient red Volkswagen. She waved at the girls and beeped her horn in greeting.
Meredith shook her head in disgust, looking after the departing car. "She's probably going to go pick up Jeff at work and then they'll go out to dinner and discuss wedding plans. That's all they do, she and Jeff. Wedding plans, wedding plans.
Sick.
"
"I remember that your sister was once a fine young woman," Anastasia said sadly. "Intelligent and ambitious."
"A waste of a young life," Meredith acknowledged mournfully.
Anastasia said goodbye and walked the remaining two blocks to her own house alone. She realized that she felt a little guilty. No, actually, she felt more than a little; she felt
massively
guilty. It was true that she had given up her pursuit of Steve Harvey. It was true that she, like her friends, would become a better person: more scholarly, more family-oriented, better read, more civic-minded and politically aware, now that she would not be wasting her time trying to get an idiotic seventh-grade boy to pay attention to her.
But
men?
That was something else again. She had not given up on SWM.
Anastasia had been calculating very carefully: the number of days it might take for her letter to reach New York; the number of minutes, maybe even an hour or two, for SWM to compose his reply; the number of days for his reply to make its way from Manhattan to the Krupnik mail slot in a Boston suburb.
It might—just
might
—be today.
She hurried up the steps to her house, opened the front door, and called, "Hello! I'm home!" at the same time that she was scattering the stacked mail on the hall table, looking for a letter addressed to Swifty.
But it was not there. Not yet.
Dear SWM,
I know that it is just the tiniest hit rude to write a second time when I have not yet received your answer to my first letter.
But I saw on the TV news (I am very interested in current events and things of international interest. like for example rumors of marital trouble between Charles and Diana) that a postal vehicle in New York collided with a truck carrying live chickens. Peter Jennings on the news made it sound like a funny event, and they showed pictures of live chickens running around the street, with people chasing them.
But I didn't find it at all amusing. For one thing, the chickens looked very scared and the people chasing them didn't look too thrilled either.
And also: Peter Jennings didn't even mention the possibility of mail getting lost as a result of that accident.
I thought I had better write again just in case my first letter was on that truck and got mixed in with all those chicken feathers and was lost.
Or maybe you are sick. The news also said that there's a lot of flu around. I really am concerned for you.
I want to tell you. also, that I did have a relationship in my life. I concealed it from you before. But now it is completely over, so it need not come between us in any way. His name was Steve. He was also a SWM.
Take aspirin and drink lots of liquids, if you have flu. It is okay to write letters even if you have a slight fever. My brother had a slight fever when he had chicken pox but he was able to do a lot of coloring and follow-the-dots with no problem.
Sincerely,
SWIFTY
(Single Waiting Impatient Female: Tall, Young)
3
It was a usual sort of Thursday evening dinner at the Krupniks' house. Anastasia's parents were arguing, in a friendly fashion, about a novel they had both been reading. Myron Krupnik was really an expert on books, since he was a professor of literature, so he made a long almost-speech, as if he were standing in front of his Harvard classroom, and he helped himself to
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