You push your fingers into mine, pull my hand up to your chest and kiss the back of my knuckles and I forget I want to wake you up. The want to tell you I’m sad is replaced by the want to tell you I love you.
I can’t tell if he rolls his eyes, because I am already rolling mine. As a music snob, I have stuck to my snobbery and refused to give Wilco the time of day.
The first time I heard the song I was a virgin. It was in a car of a friend’s older brother. It was at night, just like you’d imagine hearing it the first time.
Two days before your birthday, I break up with you. Out of the blue. It feels really good. Like I can breathe. Like I learned how to do it.
I wish I thought of this when he was living. I wish I would have taken his bruised, cut up, calloused hand and beg him to try it. To do it with me.
You cry. We have sex. It’s incredible. You say I may be the one.
Go to the movies. Go see a show. Dance your ass off at karaoke at the local dive bar and flirt with the guy who sings your favorite song badly. Let him buy you a drink. Or buy him one.