be quiet, big boys don't cry

pt i.

May 29th. Three years ago, a Sunday that will remain forever dear to me. I trembled all evening, danced, bewitched "like Kim Novak in Picnic," you said, drank two pink wines, dressed myself in blue. I hardly remember anything, I was jarred and cracked open and terrifyingly new. There are no photographs. We walked to the water and sat there until it was a new day. Bagels, warm and salted. A sun shower. A dozen mosquito bites. The bus ride home, I listened to this song repeatedly, through the silent summer fog. The opposite.