March She can be cold.

Fashion (Canada) - - Moments - By Ian Wil­liams

SUB- Z E RO In high school, there was a baller who was re­ally into March, but she wasn’t into him. One time he strut­ted over to her as she was head­ing to the change room and said some­thing lame like “Girl, lemme give you a hand un­zip­ping them jeans.” She rolled her eyes. Af­ter that, ev­ery time she walked past his bros, they roasted her. “March so cold, you need a blan­ket just to talk to her. March so icy, you need skates to get close to her. Knock knock. Who’s there? March. March who? Ma­choo! I think I’m catch­ing a cold.” SPR ING In uni­ver­sity, March re­branded her­self from the cold one to the cool one. On spring break, she went to Day­tona first year, New Or­leans sec­ond year, Mi­ami Beach third year, Can­cun

fourth year. She didn’t flash any­body, she didn’t hook up with tanned gym rats, but she had a good time. She got a henna tat­too like Ri­hanna. That was cool. Af­ter three fruity drinks with com­pli­cated straws, she could be per­suaded to put her hands on her knees and twerk. 3 1 DAYS She grew up with a hoop over the garage and a dad who liked to play one-on-one with her. Be­cause her fam­ily ob­served March Mad­ness more se­ri­ously than they ob­served Easter, she thought the NCAA and NAACP were re­lated un­til Black His­tory Month in Grade 10.

Her whole fam­ily was tall. She dated men tall enough to sire re­bound­ers or at least ac­ces­sorize with her when she wore heels.


March bought a Canada Goose coat with fur around the hood. She took a selfie and sent it to her bestie, Fe­bru­ary, who replied by send­ing a photo of her new Sorel boots with fur at the cuff. It’s a weird, com­pet­i­tive friend­ship.


On their first date, she and her hus­band-to-be got into a con­ver­sa­tion about the net worth of Jay-Z and Bey­oncé. So she asked him di­rectly: “How much money do you have? Net.” It was a bet­ter ques­tion than “How much money do you make?” He an­swered with­out flinch­ing. And he paid.


She likes Kanye’s “Gold Dig­ger” for the cho­rus the way her ex-hus­band liked Play­boy for the fic­tion.


Don’t get her wrong. She has her own money. She started off as a soft­ware de­vel­oper and then made a killing cod­ing pre­dic­tive al­go­rithms for on­li­neshop­ping be­hav­iour. If she wanted to, she could cash out and #fol­lowher­pas­sion of work­ing the per­fume counter at the Bay. If she wanted to, she could roll around the board­room in a white tutu like Madonna.


March smiles with her lips closed be­cause of her gap teeth. She im­pulse-bought a mag­a­zine be­cause Ge­or­gia May Jag­ger was on the cover. March thought, “Well, if she could be a model then”—not ac­count­ing for the fact that the model was 15 years younger and a Jag­ger.


Her sec­ond hus­band ends up be­ing a cor­po­rate type. Capricorn. He’s al­ways mak­ing res­o­lu­tions, con­sult­ing a list in the su­per­mar­ket, sched­ul­ing lump-sum pay­ments on the cot­tage, tuck­ing re­ceipts into his wal­let, sort­ing through a tote bag of tax records and set­ting sea­sonal bed­times for them. That kind of man. He has no friends to speak of, though he gets along with Septem­ber, the in­suf­fer­able aca­demic that her friend Fe­bru­ary mar­ried.

Some­times when she hears a low groan in the dis­tance, March peeks through her bed­room blinds to see if it might be Au­gust mow­ing the lawn with his shirt off. He’s so hot.

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