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  • I can hardly remember him now. He played guitar at Open Mic night and I thought anyone that did that was mostly stupid unless they were my friends, and talented. But then one night he played "Alameda" and I couldn't stop myself from paying attention.

    His name was Daniel and after many dark beers aptly named "October Moon" he made me promise to make him a mixtape. In the next day's hangover delirium that's what I did. I made him a mixtape of songs I loved that he said he'd learn to play. I didn't see him for a few weeks, but one night he turned up on stage. He played "Amanda/Cecelia" and I melted. What a fucking girl.

    At closing time he asked for my phone number and as I stood silent he left me a voicemail. "Hi, it's Daniel and after I hang up I'm going to kiss you." And he did, near the graffiti-ed bathroom of the bar that could have been my home. He lived in a small apartment with hardwood floors and an over-sized Husky that bothered my asthma. I couldn't tell you what happened next or if I ever saw him again. As I recall, he moved to Chicago and I like to imagine he sometimes remembers the drunk girl who loved his songs and that one time he sang the right one and she went home with him.
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