2001-09-16 || 11:00 p.m.

|| running out of gas in 1997. ||

(i can hear people shifting in the apartments around me, from all sides. toilets flushing covers being pulled up over ears trash bags full and bloated dragged across linoleum. dead bolts clicking into place.)

back when golden gate park was still an enchanted forest of goblins and needles we ran out of gas. in the cold. i am wearing your parka. you are wearing tight pants and a collared shirt and are making the funny face you make when you need to push up your glasses but can't be bothered to. we have gotten off the scooter and are pushing it up paved hills. you offer to let me sit and steer while you push, a suggestion made with your ex-girlfriend in mind, who would not stand for this wandering in the dark under orange lights in the middle of the night. no gas. drunk. but i hold up one side and you hold up the other and we are cold and lost and tired. we find a pizza place open and ask where is the gas station. the streets have become mazes. there are trees and shadows and cars have stopped passing us. you are apologies and chattering teeth. i have in mind the moment two hours into the future when we have sailed down hills on the mighty primavera, quiet with frozen noses and fingers, when we have performed the proper combination of jingling and tugs of the key to let us in, when we have climbed up the stairs and peeled off clothes and are under covers. warm. whispers and settling. arms over under and around, ears properly covered, kisses lost in my hair.

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