I. He left behind a half pack of Reds in my glove compartment from the night before. I’m 20 years old on a lunch break. In film class, we’re at the scene in Blue Velvet when Jeffrey and I are sneaking into a lounge singer’s apartment, and now I’m worried that Frank is going to smell the tobacco on my hands. II. He’s 22 years old and we’re in his room watching the beginning of Phantom of the Opera for the third time. He’s running his fingers down my bare back and it feels like water that could be holy water, but we lack the energy for faith. I’m on the third full glass of wine. The chandelier falls, the mask comes off, the sun greets that sweet spot of the windowpane, and I’m not surprised when we miss Monday morning. III. I’m six years old, pouring out the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon down the kitchen sink. On the counter, there’s a glass half empty and I rinse it out clean. The stone white moon, always watching, always mocking from the window, makes shadow crosses down my empty chest, tells me it’s 3am. Beside wooden table legs, I am praying, with knees pressed to the floor, that maybe this will make somebody happy. ✱✱✱
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