I remember thinking that you probably didn't make much money when I saw your car. That modest, tiny white car that I would come to know so well. It looked lonely parked behind Starbucks that first night we met. We took my car instead, and the first thing yo(more)u noticed was Curtis Loew. I heard satisfaction in your voice when you saw me nod agreeably and pretend I didn't think you had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. Your eyes were their own fucking galaxy and I wanted to look up into them forever.
A couple days in I climbed into that sad little mid 90's Saturn of yours. I didn't know about your money then. I didn't care. The inside smelled particular, but I couldn't place the aroma of "quality Kush" until you taught me to a few weeks later.
You drove responsibly and I liked that. We talked. Sparred. Laughed. Shared blissful reflective silence knowing we had just seen a glimpse of light at the end of the darkness we were both in. I didn't feel the weight of the wedding ring I had stashed in my pocket anymore. Willie Watson and his banjo crackled through your old, shitty Saturn speakers and for the first time in my life... I was new.(less)