Weblog entry:
- First draught
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We rest our glasses upon the dark, smooth, silent oak; a quiet ring forms at the bottom of each. We talk, our teeth the deepest white, smiling over secrets shared and remembered. We drink deep and quickly, the rings remain. The soundtrack’s one of sixth grade dances and eighth grade eyerolls, and she looks like she’s praying as she covers her laugh with her hands. There’s the crackle of now, and how it slouches toward the last of its kind: where you’re each stranded in the path next to the other’s. The soundtrack’s one of schoolbuses and charcoal sketches, but no one’s there to sing along.
The last cigarette smoked, the last hug exchanged, the evening ends, the rings remain.
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- 07th day of January 2004.
- Filed under Story, Memory.
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