Your parent’s house is in the middle of everywhere I need to be, and when I’m near I find myself unconsciously drifting towards your street out of habit and an almost gravitational pull. I pass: 1) your old bedroom where I took your virginity, which you lied about, told me you lost it to a stranger in the backseat of a car and didn’t admit to said lie for two years because you thought it was emasculating because I was more experienced, which I thought was cute, but which I later found annoying as I realized how good you were at lying; 2) the parking lot, that is, your backyard where we searched for your cat who went missing that night we took acid and you swallowed that glow stick and we made space-cadet love and realized the cat was never missing at all; 3) your stepfather’s church where we went to so many funerals and crept around with flashlights at night, stealing the collection money and fucking on the altar saying we’re so going to hell even though neither of us believed in hell; 4) your bathroom window where we drew faces with our fingers on the glass, steamed and humid from the heat of the tub where we bathed each other, and later I bathed alone when I locked myself in after you tried to kick me out of the house screaming I’m going to call the police after I threw that beer in your face after you threw the glass at the wall after I ruined your party after you told me you didn’t love me anymore; 5) your kitchen where we microwaved soup and danced to John Coltrane even though neither of us could dance and your mom would come down babbling and drunk wearing nothing but silk underwear, and you’d get so embarrassed, and I’d tell you I didn’t care because I didn’t because I loved your family more than I loved my own.

Your parent’s house is in the middle of everywhere I need to be, so I take the back roads.

Brittany Harmon
The Sun Also Rises
Ernest Hemingway