Again and again, I come back to writing about you.
Why do you think that is?
I suppose I know why. You were nice and didn't have to be. You were considerate and gentle... understanding, even.
But that could all be a delusion.
You could have been the biggest bitch of them all, later on, I suppose.
But something makes me doubt that.
Why really? I don't think I get it. Why not me?
I still remember everything you told me.
About your dad, and your brother, and phone conversations with your mom, so far away.
Was it what I said about Brantford? How it's "the same as any other place, really."? I can't believe you'd judge so much on one comment like that, no.
Will I ever see you again, I wonder? Would you move away, go live nearer to your mother, perhaps? Or just... away from Brantford?
I remember you riding off, casting off the night or embracing the morning, by bike or taxi.
I remember feeling like a dolt for trying, but knowing I'd feel even worse if I never did. So many things I remember. I remember you cleaning out the garbage, and actually being receptive to my inane (and often ridiculous) chatter. I remember you drawing the tattoo.
Could I still be a 13 out of 10? Was I ever?
Mopping the floor, sitting on the curb.
Damn. Damn it.
But for a short while, God combined two of my very most adored things in the world... that place... and you.
Back.