What we had to do was write a sentence, footnote it, and write a story in the order of the footnotes. It doesn’t sound like it makes much sense, but it kind of does. I really like this, but I feel – no, I’m sure it could use some improvement, so constructive criticism is incredibly, warmly welcomed.

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The days(3) are often(1) longest(6) after(5) the sun(4) sets(2).

1. Oftentimes we set out early in the morning, planning for a day of window-shopping or gentle conversation between lovers in a street side café. Clasping hands between us, we ignore the whispers and stars that can accompany going out together in public and talk jovially of this or that, and oftentimes we stop beneath an enormous maple tree that shades the bench on which two men shared their first kiss almost four years ago.

2. Settling down on that very bench, the one on which we sat almost four years ago, where he would shuffle a few inches closer to me every few minutes but never catch my eye, all the while a remarkable shade of pink, he takes my hand again and intertwines our fingers, bringing them to rest on his knee. It seems for a moment he might open his mouth to say something, but then he just smiles, and that speaks volumes between us. It always has. I assume it always will.

3. The days grow short even as we sit in silence, in harmony, he with a slight smile and I with a grin as we watch the sun go down over the duck pond. It will be cold soon, but I wait for him to move uncomfortably before I take a breath to suggest we leave. Almost like he reads my mind, he looks at me with agreement that seems to be tinged with an ulterior motive, so I grin even wider and allow him to draw me up and into his arms. The air grows colder around us, the days ever shorter, but the two of us have nothing to worry about.

4. The sun is nothing but an orange film on wispy clouds by the time we reach the flat we share, laughing and panting and clutching our sides, his hair disheveled and strewn about his face. He has never looked so happy, I realize, eyes twinkling, slitted, tearful with mirth and frosty air, and he looks so full of emotion he could burst from the sheer volume of them, just as the sun is exploding into purples and blues behind us. He looks as though our run from the park has put him back ten years; he looks young again.

5. After he falls asleep, I wander the flat, my fingers touching knickknacks and photographs, trailing fingertips on the peeling wallpaper and flattening palms on tabletops. The computer he sits at, running programs foreign to me, leaves my fingers covered in dust; in return, my ringers leave dusty furrows on the computer. The screen is black on the monitor. It rarely turns on anymore. I rarely see his broad back silhouetted by the bright, white light of his C program or Internet browser anymore. What was his desktop image? I cannot remember.

6. The longest I have slept since he died is about two hours. When I tire of lying in bed waiting for sleep, the bed we shared for two and a half years, I hoist myself to my feet and meander the flat, followed by his memory, my dusty fingers lingering on his photographed lips.