Waking up and temporarily being unable to register where I am. In front of me your steering wheel moves smoothly as you navigate the road ahead; my head is on your lap and I smile sweetly thinking of how comfortable you’ve been, how easy it was to put myself in such a vulnerable position as to fall asleep on our first date.

Walking around the side of the town house with Tikki securely behind the backyard fence while you told your best friend David that it was okay to hang out with me, your little sister, because I was fun. He was skeptical, his face scrunched in unnatural ways as he tried to figure out how it was possible that a younger sibling could be in any way interesting to play with. He eventually shrugged it off, taking your word for it, and we explored the forest as if it were a jungle expedition.

Holding you, stroking your shoulder after you’d turned away from me. You’re crying. You’ve revealed a secret, something you should have told me months ago but were afraid I’d reject you for it. Yeah, you should have told me months ago, I’m thinking, but it doesn’t matter. It’s okay. And while I’m comforting you as tears stream down both our cheeks, I’m wondering why you’re not comforting me, as I am the one who now has to wonder if you’re keeping anything else from me. I am the one who will spend the next year and a half thinking you’re lying about something or other; I am the one who should be facing away, crying, and receiving consoling words. Instead, I’m holding you, stroking your shoulder, and telling you everything will be okay.

The smile that spread across your face when I told you that you were a distraction.

Kissing you good-bye as I climbed back into my car. It was early in the morning, slightly chilly but summer; the sky was a deep-light blue, stuck in that strange mood where you’re happy but not yet ready to show it to the world. You wrapped your arms around me and I sighed and smiled thinking of how perfect this world was, this moment of us together, standing here, smiling at the memory of last night.

Crying in the back ‘green’ room of my Grandmother’s house late at night. I’m trying to keep quiet, but the emotions are flowing so wildly that I just… can’t. I sob loudly and bury my face in the pillow, then return to the phone. “Sorry,” I say, “I’m trying to keep my head on straight.” You sigh, and I know that sigh. It’s exasperated, tired of me, sick of my shit. When I tell you I don’t want us to see each other anymore for a while, I’m thinking that I’m breaking up with you, but you’re thinking that we’re still together.

The last time you picked me up to ride on your shoulders. “You’re getting too big for this,” Mom said off to the side, and I didn’t enjoy it as much as I should have. We’re walking around Civil War battlefields or encampments or something along those lines, my brother happy-go-lucky in his Confederate soldier hat with literature stuffed into his backpack. He’s smiling widely, soaking in every bit of information from this trip, while I’m on top of the world.

Ours’ album Precious recently came out and I’m playing it for you. I love it. I don’t think it has the intensity that Distorted Lullabies had, but it’s still great, and I still latched onto a few favorites immediately. You, however, find it to be subpar, and tell me as much, and I feel guilty for liking something that you don’t like. I hesitate, then tell you that it doesn’t matter. I like it. That’s what matters. It is the first time I’ve stood up to you, even if in such a small way.

How you feel in my mouth. You’re perfect. It’s perfect. What luck do I have that here, tonight, this smooth skin, this hygenic, well-kept piece of you fits perfectly? It’s strange; I’m realizing that I don’t like you very much otherwise, but here is this piece of your soul that I’m able to take in exactly how you like it. I enjoy it, but not enough to see you again.

We’re sitting on your couch staring uselessly at the TV. I keep thinking, “Say something, do something, be something!” but nothing is happening. It’s my first date since my breakup, and I’m still a bit of a hermit. I haven’t been out. I don’t know how to play this game anymore. It should have been simple, very straight-forward, but I’m seeing the difference between where I am and where I want to be. In an attempt for comfort and cuteness, you successfully send me a text message. I smile to myself and think of all the possible responses that could get a conversation going, but instead I just look at you and shake my head.

My first kiss: It was in my parents basement, and you tasted like menthol and chewing gum. It was disgusting and I wondered if that was what all kissing was like, pulled against you while you leaned against a wall, letting me assume the power and expecting me to know what to do with my mouth. Did you know it was my first kiss? Did you know that it hurt when you slammed your teeth into mine; did you know that I avoided you not out of girlish embarassment having just kissed a cute guy, but because you tasted bloody awful?

Sitting in Health class, you turned to me and handed me a notebook. You said I could look at it if I wanted, that it was all your personal thoughts and ideas, drawings and outlines. You said you couldn’t keep it at your house or your dad would kill you; there were references to Satan and the word “fuck” sprinkled the pages sparingly. I wondered where you’d kept it before you gave it to me, not realizing that it was a token of affection, that you were telling me you liked me by giving me this nearly empty notebook of your mind. You were trying to impress me, and it completely went over my head. I shoved the notebook into my backpack, smiling to myself, thinking that you were cute and I’d do this for you because I liked you.

Your face after you kissed me on the lips: indifferent. I died inside, of course; I’d liked you all year, but you were my friend. It was a friendly kiss, consolation, thanks for being so cool. You were enamoured with a friend of mine, so I sunk into the background after that kiss and you never knew how much I wanted you.

Sitting on the front porch of your house smiling. We’re just sitting: you, Grandma, and I, and it’s so quiet and peaceful. I had a memory then, singing along to the Wedding Singer soundtrack with the cousins on that very porch, not knowing what we were saying but finding little Audrey’s rendition of “Pass the Dutchie” absolutely adorable. I looked up at you and smiled, and you didn’t know what I was thinking but you smiled back anyway, brightly and happily and without any hesitation.