I ran down the sidewalk laughing, hoping I would remember the way back. Strangers holding tall boys cheered from the porch. I grabbed two girls on the way. We held hands and nourished our lungs with the rushing summer air.
I didn’t know this street or this yard or the yard next door or the street I just crossed, racing like a child, with no reason, with abandon, with total joy, in the dark, and the lights were like brush strokes and the stars were all falling, forever looping.
“Do you know Pretty Girls Make Graves?” I said later, and was misunderstood to be preaching facts. It could have been caused by the vodka on either side of the conversation.
On the steps, there were tears invested in a stranger. They needed to be cried by someone and the bottle spun in my direction.
I stayed too long, told too many truths, and resigned my body to the hood of my car at 2 a.m.
The Chronology of Water