2001-11-13 || 11:54 a.m.

|| it's smellin like mold and hot dogs. ||

her: i am missing my michael. i am telling stories about him in weird italian food drive thru restaurants. i am trying not to cry at the sight of the golden gate bridge because it reminds me of all the weekend adventures: the homemade rowboat and foggy beaches and smoking in the white toyota pick-up and traipsing through unfamiliar supermarkets to buy ingredients for our famed banana and salami sandwiches and arguing incessantly and singing along with lou reed and 'she's my best friend.' i think this has become a weekly missing, when it just builds up to the point where i curse you for leaving me, best friend-less and without my unconditional admirer. last night i wore your parka. it is still too big and smells like mold and hot dogs but seeing my shadow cast under orange streetlights it reminded me of me when you were here.

him: oh my jennifer h, how my heart aches for you; daily, hourly, every click on the analog clock echos a reminder that you are not here with me to walk in the rain to the library to get books about herbology and shipbuilding. i am feeling oh so nautical and yet landlocked. i miss the city of san francisco with its streets haunted by your footsteps and the foggy cold beaches. and our resturants and junk food and smoking at the ocean overlook next to the museum mechanique. and your upturned nose and good skin and freckles and the dreamiest colored hair that i catches my eye from blocks away. and shared clothes and getting excited about dumb things like french fries and good thrift stores and the competitiveness on scoring the better things ( i almost always surrender them to you!)

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