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  • Once upon a time, I met a boy on a beach. He was lovely and Californian and surfy and we tumbled into the kind of lust that feels like an ancient friendship, one forgotten by time. As we walked by the waves, at night, after several or many Balinese beers, we talked about a hundred things I can no longer remember and one I cannot forget. ”We could sit here and watch for shooting stars,” he offered. ”Shooting stars? I’ve never seen one,” I replied, truthfully, ruefully. ”You’ve never seen a shooting star?” He laughed. “Really? Why not? Don’t you ever look up?”

    His name and his face and the curve of his arm, the set of his jaw, the line of his belly, I can still recall, even though I only knew him for one day and two nights. His breath in my ear and his hands in my hair and this: I never forget to look up.
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