Memory 1, Week 5

Josh picked me up at the coffee shop where I had just finished training. Nervous and excited, I changed in the bathroom, pulling off the black t-shirt, too big, the white letters already peeling, already stained with espresso and bleach, and drug on a dress, new black Goodwill flats. I met him out in the parking lot and grabbed a wrinkled grocery bag of tape cassettes from my car. On the drive to Rome, we baked in Georgia July heat, trying to make a soufflé of conversation rise through the countryside and the awkward lyrics of “When a Man Loves a Woman” from a Most Beloved Oldies compilation. Rome was quaint and a little run down at the edges. We arrived at a sketchy antique shop, massive in size, even from the outside, where only one floor is visible. All ply-board and dust, stuffed with furniture, worthless books, and decades past’s fall collections, we were easily lost. When we returned to Carrollton, we parked in Adamson Square and walked the town, edging toward a wooden bridge over the train tracks, asking each other questions. We climbed the oak boards to the top and stood looking out over the rust and metal that cuts through the heart of the city. “I have a question for you,” he said, “Do you want to kiss?”