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Summer in the Midwest

It feels how it looks.

We drive. We drive and the sun changes colors. We drive and the miles underneath us are hotel rooms and city flags and forgotten moments come to life, awakened from hibernation and now loud and hungry.

Your hand is on my leg and your fingers are so slender and so tan. I never expected to watch your hand on my leg again. I never expected even to see you again.

You’re driving and talking and your eyes are rapidly moving from me to the road like you’re trying to see everything around you. I know it is only miles now until you kiss me, hundreds of miles still but so much less than the miles that have been in between us. It is strange to feel myself wanting something again and remembering the way that I missed you. It is strange to drive all these miles together when we used to drive them alone.

I remember Shiro’s house, carpet and stairs and wet hair against the wall. I remember the banister. I remember Bearden and all of the questions she asked me.

I remember fields and sun and cleats off, Amy telling me I light up when I talk about you. How she cocked her eyebrow when you walked over and made me blush.

I remember what is yet to come. All of the songs that I used to listen to have emerged again and become part of daily life. All of the fields we walked through, all of the wine we drank, the oceans of cool white sheets in every hotel room, the scratch of your fingers on guitar strings — they are all moments we have lived and have yet to live. It is so familiar, but how it feels still startles me.

It is still so delicate, I have secretly steeled myself against every possibility. Nothing would surprise me, which makes room for recklessness.

Rain and dinner parties and God and 10.3% abv local beers and memories of missed warmups have conspired to let it all happen again in three days.

All I’ve had to do is say yes.