The first day that we met in person, I remember sitting on a public bench, discussing our favourite books.
We also babbled about our own writing.
We traded our dreams.
That was a mess. I'm sorry for introducing my myself like that.
My name is Dahlia O'Keefe. My identity centers around my fatness, my feminism, and my protest. I am a raging lesbian, a socialist, a punk.
Oh, god, I can smell her. I swear, I can smell her right now.
I'll never again play the song that I wrote for her.
But I think that there's another song waiting to be written; a different tone. A different groove.
I remember laying with her in my bed, falling asleep next her as she fiddled around on her cell phone. I later learned that I kept squeezing her arm in my sleep. She called me cute, then.
Would she still think of me as cute?
I remember visiting her old school in Boston, a private school that her parents were unable to continue reimbursing. We held hands as well trudged around the large campus.
Her hand was warm, that day.