Beth Ann Fennelly

That Kind of Person

That Kind of Person At long last, I buy a new car, and it’s exceedingly pretty. But I manage to scratch its electric blue metallic paint within days. I’ve no idea how—I didn’t fling the door against the garage or scrape into a parking spot. The scratch, a curlicue the length of my pinky, simply appears. All I can figure is that when leaning against my car, talking to a friend, the wire of a spiral notebook poked from my totebag.