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  • Minneapolis to Milwaukee, talking about love, mostly. A town made entirely of water slides. Bare feet in flat rivers and prairie grass. Bags and bags of cheese curds; Wisconsin doesn't mess around when it comes to cheese. Wearing the same dress, coordinating swimsuits and sunburns.

    Hands out the sunroof headed north from San Francisco. Ninety degrees before ten in the morning, operating on soy cappuccinos and fumes. Lazy laps in the pool, beer and chips and salsa. Roadside fruitstands with fresh, ripe figs. Singing along, loud and off-key. No tan lines.

    Carrying our shoes on a beach in Monterey. Seals playing just offshore. Fresh crab and wedding plans, taking photos with real film. Matching outfits. One album on repeat the whole way home. The sisters we never had.

    Two bachelorette parties, two limo rides. Legs everywhere. Steak and dancing and all manner of penis-themed accessory. Everyone is gorgeous.

    Weekly cocktail nights, a month-long slumber party, three sets of spare keys, nights that don't end. Salsa dancing and pink wine. So many words as we linger over dinner. The realization that it's all okay, then the belief.

    It sprinkled for a few minutes last night, just enough to jog my memory.
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