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Last winter, we were in love.
At least, that’s what I call it when I tell this story to myself.

We unintentionally wore the same color shirts.
I sat on your couch under a blanket drinking Rainier Beer and listening to the heater turn itself on and off.
I held your hand and tried not to trip on the uneven sidewalks.
We drove to the ocean and woke up next to each other with sand in our socks.
You shyly shared the things you loved with me, the things you wanted to do.
I left you. You looked at me through tears in your eyes while we sat on the floor of your attic.

Two summers ago, we were in love.

We hiked in the woods in silence, smiling at each other like idiots.
You drove me home in the mornings, your hand on my knee and your mind on your day.
I shared in the sadness of your divorce; you let me ruin shirt after shirt crying the last three years of my life out on your chest.
You always hugged me hello: a really big hug.
I slipped easily into your life, wearing your tshirts, using your toothbrush, eating the cereal you poured me.
You begged me to get back together over a double whiskey on the rocks downtown. I felt nothing.

Four years ago, we were in love.

I laid on my stomach on your mattress, dirty sunlight and traffic spilling in the window.
We found a bar we liked that always showed the game after church on Sundays.
I called you from work when it was slow, just to talk.
You kept a pair of pajamas for me under your pillow.
You broke me down to a state of total static. It still hurts to think about you.

At least, those are the ways I tell these stories to myself.


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