I got stuck at 16th and Washington. I remember you telling me you missed me. I passed the doughnut shop established when this was a working class neighborhood. I remember the first time you touched my knee, drunk.
I remember one time I was describing this African woman in an old Byzantine painting for Art History class. I said, “African American woman” instead of just African.
I took my dog for a walk in the park. She killed a groundhog. It squeaked a bit before she buried it.
I can’t get any closer to you without being on heights.
I thought I couldn’t win at Scrabble because I wasn’t as smart, until I saw people using normal words. She always had to be smarter than me, until I beat her at chess, and backgammon, and poker, and ping-pong. Now I live in fear of talking down to you.
I guess you have to try to find love so you have something to go for.
Typos are the misspeaking stutters you glaze over in normal conversation.
I don’t even know why I try to be original anymore. There’s nothing wrong with derivative works.
She didn’t know how miserable I was. I can’t blame her for not trying to fix that. I can blame her for not being there though. And I do. And I will. She asked me about it once in college, and I told her she wasn’t there. She started arguing with me. Then crying. Mostly crying.
I had to find a hat to go to the baseball game. I couldn’t go without the hat.
Tell me how to tell someone they’re bad with money. To have to be so careful. To watch it pitter away.
I talked over my Dad today and I didn’t care. He has nothing on me now. Only the requirements.
I drank a diet coke. I hate diet coke. But no one listened. Then I felt awkward about my weight.