Larissa

When you heard her talk, you looked around for Patty or Selma. Or that woman Cheri Oteri played on SNL. You knew that voice meant you ball was never coming back from over her fence. Or you WALKED past her driveway. Never ran. And you left her dog alone.

But when you turned around, what you see is Gorgeous. Heavy brown hair, with reddish tones, bedroom eyes and slim thighs. Her beauty was like a Lara poem and it was no mistake her mother named her Larissa. Next to her, nearly always, was Martha. Not even her clunky gray wrap could hide her stunning body. She chose to uglify herself, tying her dirty blonde hair into a tight ponytail, which only emphasized her well-scrubbed, All-American, girl-next-door face.

But that voice. That Old Bostonian with a hint of Adirondacks cultivated only by years of smoking 2 packs a day since she was 14. Larissa got invited to her first boy-girl party and cadged a pack of her mom's smokes to make an impression. She kissed her first boy and he told everyone he fingered her during two minutes in the closet and she got a "rep". A week later, she kicked him in the 'nads and the jokes stopped. To her face, at least.

She met Martha in college and they were never apart. But they'd been not apart for nearly nine years and life had grown into a comfortable routine. However, their bodies synced for the last nine years meant that they got their periods at the same time. One night a month, they came alive. Tampax-buying night also meant cheap boxes of Chardonnay from the Piggley-Wiggley and mozzarella breadsticks from Pizza Hut.