I tried on my interview suit tonight. It didn't fit—pinched at the shoulders, gaped at the waist.
That suit only fits one version of me: the scared twenty-three-year-old who bought it for a job he wasn't sure he'd get.
The version that got the job anyway. That version is gone.
I'm broader now. Heavier in different places.
Marta the crossing guard waves at me every morning. She doesn't know that beneath this jacket, I'm fighting to keep my voice steady in practice.
Our apartment thermostat has a note from Sarah taped over it: 'Set to 68, not 55.' We're saving every penny for the wedding.
Tonight I stood in front of the mirror in that old suit and saw the seams where I've stretched.
I'm not the same person who walked into that interview. But maybe that's the whole point.