Where is Surly?

She’d come by, swim suit at the ready. As long as the lake wasn’t frosted over, she was ready to go for a swim, that nut. “Come on, Ramona, I’ll race ya,” she’d say.

I’d respond violently with, “Don’t call me ‘Ramona’!” Her odd habit of calling me a name that isn’t mine has lasted well past highschool now that we’re both young ladies working crappy jobs. Her a waitress and me a factory bumembly worker. Work, sleep, have fun swimming. My days seemed so much emptier without the swimming. What was I working for?