Long Beach: On an over-stuffed green couch at 6th and Temple, you told me you were moving out and home because you just couldn’t do it anymore. I wanted to lay my head in your lap and cry. We ate hot dogs and IMed Darren.
Sacramento: On an air mattress in your living room, we lay with inches carefully calculated between us, talking about how good things were with you and Rachel now and how your dining room chairs needed re-upholstering, so could we please go to Jo-Ann Fabrics tomorrow.
Portland: Sandwiched between you and Kyle in a Nissan pickup with 200,000 miles and no radio, I straddled a stick shift and did not, even during a sharp left-turn, let my knee rest against yours.