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  • I can’t remember where exactly we were going, but if I remember what you were wearing correctly, it had to be the day you took me to a Yankees game and we would’ve been headed through Manhattan and back out to Brooklyn. What I remember is that you were wearing your black tennis shoes, one of the few pairs of jeans I’ve seen you wear, kind of a lighter denim, a belt and a light tan, short-sleeved, crew neck t-shirt.

    The train was quite crowded and there were certainly no seats to be had and it was a competition for a pole to hold on to. My midwest-self wasn’t used to strangers touching you, practically using you to keep their own balance as the train changes pace and not even noticing. You stood behind me and put both arms around me and held on the pole so I didn’t have to and insulating my need for personal space you New Yorkers just don’t seem to have.

    For several stops, we didn’t say much of anything, just stood there, with me leaning back into you. I felt like everyone around us could probably feel the heat - our chemistry was always so palpable - and would occasionally have a pang of midwestern self-consciousness, but let it go. I really didn’t care if they could, after all. I think you occasionally leaned over and kissed my shoulder. It was so simple, headed to no real special occasion, in a very unromantic train on a hot and sweaty July day. No words, but when we stepped off that train, it felt like we just had the most intimate conversation we had ever had.

    I can only find that with someone else now I suppose, but somehow, I feel like this memory needs live on - I hope for both of us.
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