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  • Belting out Jimmy Eats World and sucking down vanilla milkshakes in my 1988 VW on the drive to Lake Michigan. Calling me the Cookie Monster, wiping crumbs from my face as I grinned, almost proud. Asking me, "Are you just dinking around?" in the interminable period before we left for this dinner party, that drink.

    All of the nicknames: I was Da Bunny and you were Da Other Bunny. In Greece, you called me Bonophocles. In Mexico, Conejita. In Italy, was it Bunnici? In Singapore, Bunni-san? Or had I become Littles by then? Piccola? Pequeñita?

    Telling the Peace Corps we "navigated high-stress scenarios" by hitting our computer and yelling fuck (you) or throwing glass in people's eyes (me). Wearing each others' clothes and jumping on your ridiculously small bed. Singing you awake in the morning when you were still curled up in sleep.

    Extended goodbye to: my photographer, Economist-synthesizer, memory bank. The one I could count on to swear at his phone for its latest malfunction. The one who could count on me say "That's not the right way to whisk," as if there were a wrong way. We counted on and counted on until there was nothing left to count.
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