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Oh, come on, universe. Here? Now? You're getting fucking predictable. Of all the places I'd imagined, hoped, dreamed and feared seeing him, this podunk town where I have no associations other than the blissful drudgery of work was not one. Even after all these years, I spy your winter eyes and the bones of your face, and it's like the shock of a bad surprise, chemicals shooting through my body to my fingertips and back in three heartbeats. It's like a bee sting, the needle of pain followed by the immediate fear of allergies and hospitals and death. The sight of your face across the street causes me more pain than your fists ever could. I stop, and my cigarette falls from mouth. I can't take my eyes off of you. You see me, the corner of your eye picking up the unnatural stillness of cornered prey, perhaps. We look at each other from across the one lane street. No car cuts the tension, the turmoil, the desire. We see the same thing. _ A different me and a different you. We see each other after six months of pining and talking shit, after six months of drinking until we can put each other's faces on the random person we've grabbed for the night. You yell across the parking lot. You tell me I'm a bitch, a fucking cunt, I ruined your life, I'm a waste of space, I give all girls a bad name as you walk towards me. I'm yellin bastard motherfucker heartbreaker advantage taker asshole cockteeth as I walk towards you. We meet. I can't hear what you're saying, I'm too busy trying to figure out how words I don't intend to say have crept into my stream of curses. You're a beautiful asshole, you're a gorgeous fucking bastard. We kiss. I'm always so overly aware, yet I can't remember if I kissed you, you kiss me, or we move towards each other in a fluid perfect example of beautiful beginnings of regretful events. We spend a night in mutual silence, pretending that we're seventeen and in love again. I leave while you're asleep, no note, no phone number, and then two years later_ We're looking at each other from across the street in this shithole town, this town of corn and liqour stores that close at eight, framed by the autumn weather, yet we're both feeling spring. I know you just saw what I saw. And now you're seeing _ The beginning, when it was spring, and the outside wasn't for solitary mourning of youth, but for plunging deep into another human being and being just utterly content. The night we got drunk, the night that started as a Sharpie marker fight and ended with us making out all over What'sherface's room. The park, the first time I ever lost myself in something that wasn't smoked, snorted, or divided into shots. The secretive sex in the janitor's closet the last day of school. The glances, the we-have-something-only-we-know looks that lifted us up and above the slow mild horror of high school. The way I absolutely knew for two months that we would be together forever. My first name, your last name scribbled on notebooks. _ It's been at least two minutes. We haven't moved. There are things I could say. I heard about your father, I'm sorry. I hate your face, I know a stairway we can have sex in. You are the worst and best thing to ever happen to me. I love you. I'm sorry. I'll kill you. I turn and walk into the house. I go upstairs, and watch you stare at doorway I went into for a few minutes, then turn and walk down the street from the tiny attic window. You know where I am again. I smoke too many cigarettes all day, and then I come home and drink. Then I come to this cold sterile friendless website, and type out the things I want to say.