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  • Do you remember the night we sat on the roof of a train car and watched the lake? We told ghost stories and then saw a ghost, maybe, running in between the trees and train tracks. I had dragged you across town from honky-tonk, where we had danced ourselves sweaty with what always felt like half of Burlington. You asked me to go home with you, but I went back to my house instead. There was a funny part of me that wanted to lay in my bed alone and think about you while both falling asleep and waking. I do that sometimes.

    The first time I heard you play music was by accident but I can recall the whole scene perfectly, though I have no idea what I did the rest of that day, before or after. I walked into the radio bean to meet a friend and talk about books. You were standing on stage, the sun setting behind you, playing “never going back again” and I was so taken; it was my favorite song. I didn’t know anything about you. But that was the first moment that I loved you.

    What about the time we sat on opposite sides of a campfire next to a cabin in the woods of Maine and talked about driving down to New Orleans? You had planned to go with someone else but never did, and I had loosely fantasized about it but never thought I would. Something about the beer in my hand and the smoke stinging my eyes solidified every flighty idea I ever had and I asked you to come with me. You said you weren’t sure if you could. I told you that I was going either way and you were welcome to let me know whenever you wanted.
    Two months later we were sleeping on the floor in a moldy old punk house in the 9th ward. I knew there were cockroaches under my pillow. It was so hot that any sweat that evaporated off skin hung heavily in the air inches above it. Everyone asked us why we’d dare dip down past Kentucky in the middle of August.
    Still, wasn’t that the best trip either of us had ever taken?
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