We sat on the old corduroy mess I called a couch, a third or fourth hand Salvation Army salvage, watching something indie I’d dredged up from the net, eating takeout Thai and drinking winter wine. I poured myself another glass and enquired my eyes at hers. She shook her head over the quarter serve and I didn’t fill it in, just sipped my own and soaked in the mundane. After dinner we smoked cheap tobacco cut with weed and listened to Tom Waits wail his whiskey etched Americana epitaphs, promising never to forget what it felt like to remember.

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