[…]

I woke up this morning. I think. Last night was the kind of night where you can’t differentiate between sleep and consciousness. A state of limbo between both. Maybe I did awake, though. I was really thirsty. Thirsty. The type of thirst after spending a long day at the beach, basking in the sun while every liquid from your body gets extracted by the saltwater. But not for water or coffee. Thirsty for a particular song.

[to be continued]

To celebrate our one year anniversary he took me to his hometown. It was in the countryside of New Hampshire. I remember laughing when he told me that for the first time. I’m not too sure why. Now that we were here, it wasn’t so funny. It was only Autumn, yet the cold had eaten every sensibility within my bones. It didn’t seem to bother Szymon. Let’s stop for a burger, I said. A burger? He repeated back to me. What for? My mother will cook for us when we get there. I rubbed my hands together to create any sensation of warmth I could find. Will she be making burgers? I asked him. He didn’t respond. Instead, he had turned the radio on. I just want to taste a New Hampshire burger, I continued. I won’t waste your mother’s food, don’t worry. There’s nothing special about our burgers, he finally says back. You don’t get to make that decision, I retorted. Nothing here is special for you, that’s why you left. Are you going to nag me the whole ride about this? He asked, calmly. I’m going to do what I need to do to try a burger. God damnit Yasmin, he muttered under his breath. We took the rest of the ride in silence. That is, until we reached the burger joint. The sign of the restaurant spelled BURGER’D, in dull red lettering. It sat in a mini shopping plaza on the outskirts of the highway. There were three businesses total, including BURGER’D, which dwelled in the middle of those three. On its left was a foreign antique store. And on its right was a porn theater.

[to be continued]

[…]

[…]

In the moonlit parking lot behind the library, the moments of our brief encounter resurfaced, yet never to be lived again. Separated by the ever-standing bookshelves, I couldn't quite ever grasp the full portrait of your soul. But even so…despite that seemingly insurmountable obstacle, I imagined our hearts eternally beating to the same circadian rhythm; only sung to a different cadence, ever so slightly. Now approaching the door of my white sedan, I know that once I drive off, the library will remain the same.

…

It began three months ago. In the midst of my shelving I was tapped on the shoulder by a young library member. Turning my head, I was met with the most beautiful blue eyes I could ever even imagine; it was you. Entrancing is but a word, therefore lived experience could only express the undeniable warmth permeating from your gaze. I had wondered what delicate life one had to have lived to exude such grace from your eyes. Only after I thought that, had I processed your question. Where do you keep your cookbooks, you asked. Let me walk you to it, I managed to utter out. That was the second to last thing I had ever said to you.

[to be continued]

[…]

[…]

[…]

[…]

“I believe in love the same way I believe in the Sex Pistols. The band, you know? I’ll explain. 

“There’s a really interesting history—well, if it's true—on how Sex Pistols came to be. That’s the thing with history though, it's hard to completely trust something as true because it's all hearsay. You can ask the person directly, but how reliable is even that? Let's say they're not lying—which in itself is a tall task to believe—the interpretation of certain events are completely reliant on the circumstances of who we’re asking, right?

[to be continued]