So I've got some good news and some bad news.
Bad news - Matt's story isn't ready today. It won't be published until next Friday (5/6)
Good news - The reason that Matt's story isn't ready is because I got so excited about the storyline and the direction that the plot was going that I really just got carried away with it and now I have (5) pages of notes on characters, themes, settings, etc. but no complete manuscript. Seriously, though; I think you're going to really like next week's story.
What about this week? you ask. What? did you think I was just gonna leave you high and dry? Pssshhhh... you should know me better than that. You should know I got stories like gangbusters!
So this week's story is really more like a poem. I generally don't write poetry nor did I plan for this to be a poem when I was writing it, it just kind of came out the way it came out.
Anyway, I hope you like it. I kept this one pretty short. As usual, any and all feedback is welcomed. Just a :) or a :( in the comments is enough.
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I remember when we first met. You were telling us about your family reunion in Tennessee where one of your cousins; some pot-bellied little boy wearing a cowboy hat and a pair of tighty-whities, was telling these stories all throughout the day that had nothing to do with anything at all and ending each one with, ‘well, anyway.’
I remember when you were Dara’s hot friend. I remember downing pitchers of PBR on the deck of Joe’s on Juniper while the gay boys gyrated on the dance floor behind us. I remember when we met up at The Standard and walked back to your place. I remember being especially happy to be with you that night.
I remember your roof deck overlooking the Atlanta skyline. I remember the back patio of Mary’s where the smoke would hang above our heads like phantoms before dissolving into the thick summer night; off to haunt some other group of maniacal young lushes. I remember how warm the skin of your upper arm felt against mine as I leaned into you. I remember the background chatter of our friends dampening out into an indiscernible murmur as we threw back the fluorescent shots that David brought before us. I remember you and I remember not caring to remember anything else.
I remember fucking it up a few times. I remember the betrayal. I remember you accusing me of being just like my father. I remember believing you and I remember hating you for it. I remember a last minute flight to Hartsfield. I remember how dark your apartment was that day. I remember sleeping on the couch. And then I remember the night that I didn’t have to sleep on the couch.
I remember the move and I remember wanting to forget the move. I remember December in Cambridge. I remember ice-covered freeways at 3AM. Two feet of aged, smog-colored snow that flanked the road before us. I remember our first night in the apartment. I remember taking my time to remember that moment. I remember studying the layout of the living room; the boxes piled up around us. I remember sitting next to you on the futon, passing a joint back and fourth. I remember how effortlessly you wore your beauty that night; draped from your shoulders like an old black dress.
I remember when we first saw her. I remember her running up to me and I remember the feeling of never wanting to let her go. I remember a fall morning in Harvard yard. I remember the warm glow of the trees around us. I remember her in her blue harness and leash. I remember sitting outside at Grafton Street and laying down my coat next to the table. I remember all of the servers coming out, one-by-one, to marvel at these two big eyes peaking out from under the black fleece. If I’m being completely honest, that’s a top contender for the best day of my life.
I remember your red shoes on my doorstep and your eyes twitching and welling up with tears. I remember you telling me that I didn’t deserve to be loved. I remember knowing that this was really it. I remember closing the door and talking to myself under my breath. ‘Well, anyway.’