If she’d said, “I love Desperate Housewives,” or “I love Twilight” with the same amount of feeling it wouldn’t have registered, despite the loud, nerve-grating voice. I would have walked on by, navigating the crowded street corner with my hands full of heavy grocery bags as I’ve done a hundred times before. I would have continued mentally berating myself for, again, shopping at happy hour when I know the path between the store and my apartment is full of bars, and not noticed her at all. I hear that voice all over Philly, that nasal, screechy sort of female voice that pierces my ear drum exactly the way a soft, southern drawl would not. You could hear this girl talking a block away.
But it wasn’t her voice, it was the words she said, and the way she said them that caught my attention. She said, with passionate intensity: “I love
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