Sarah says we came from the same sandbox where we learned to giggle better than everyone. We actually met in our late 20s and now at 40 plus giggle we do in shops and restaurants, comparing notes on what has passed since our last meeting.
It's obvious we are friends with an arm around a waist, fingers pointing at some object in a window as we commiserate or make obscene jokes at some man's expense. "Did I really do that?", we ask, or "What do you think?" "Will this work?" We wink at each other as things are tried on for effect, personalities and clothes rejected into piles.
We are sometimes competitors for affection, but woman wiles win every time - us against them our defense against rejection. We've never fought, Sarah and I. Our time together is too precious and can't be bought simply by being in love with a man. "Is this the one?" "Can this son of (euphamism: one of them) take you away even when I warn and disapprove?"
Of course he can. A man is better than a friend until it's 2 a.m. and it's all gone wrong, and you need to sing the blues. I've heard Sarah's song and she's heard mine when we've been stupid or just have regrets. We've loved and hated the same men, shared secrets Eve wouldn't want bared to her empty world, much less our crowded one.
If I ever get a tattoo, Sarah will know where before my lover does. We will laugh and toast the crime - abettors raising glasses to whims and our wonderful selves. She believes in me and I in her. We can be raucous or demure as suits our mood, and we change suits often as our mascara runs in sympathy over small and large events.
I can see us several years hence in our comfortable shoes, still giggling and being young because we came from the same sandbox.