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In the Metra station I had a feeling I would see someone I knew; sometimes, I hate knowing innate things about to happen in my life. A guy touches my backpacked shoulder, a friend-cum-acquaintance that graduated high school a year after me. We sit together on the train.
I’m staring at Orestes when I realize my stranger is standing behind me. I don’t see him initially, I just feel him. My body tenses up and I feel excited by the idea that we’re looking at the same thing at the same time and seeing something different. I want to ask him what he thinks, but I stay quiet instead. I don’t want to ruin it.
We walk forward until our visual field is suffused with a pasture of blue. This happened to me for the first time, albeit in gold and orange, when I was 13. I remember sitting on a bench in front of the thing for twenty minutes, feeling sad and pissed off at the same time.