0:05
We drove up 16th Street and I remembered each dip and bump and break in the brick road. I remembered the way his room was set up when we were just 10; drinking water from aluminum cans provided to the flood victims (us) by Anheuser-Busch, sorting through dozens of baseball cards and eating popsicles on his bunk bed. He said we had supposedly kissed once, with a sheet held between us by Catharine McNelly. I, of course, do not recall this “kiss,” as I have boasted for the past 8 years that my first kiss was at the age of 15.
On a night like tonight, when the weather is perfect (a little bit of rain and an addicting breeze), there is nothing sadder than listening to a song about yourself and looking in the car next to you, only to find the woman sunken in her seat, slightly chilled, and crying. Sobbing, really. Her face clenched, teeth showing, tears running so slow that not even she can catch them before they fall. Had the windows not been pulled up so tightly, I could have heard how she was moaning.
But it was cold.
And her tears, moving so slow, would have frozen if they’d left her face.
