A belated six sentences for Sunday, February 2:
Sometimes, driving home, I find myself thinking of you. I don’t know what it is that reminds me—yellows squares of train windows sliding by, lights hanging in unfinished buildings, neon signs for hospitals, I don’t know. But sometimes you come back to me so vividly:
Sitting knock-kneed on the Metro in your school skirt on Friday afternoons. Dancing to the radio in my parents’ basement, your hair swinging, a curtain around you. That slow, conspiratorial smile as you leaned forward to whisper something secret in my ear.