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I knew when I looked at you that you’d be terrible for me. I could see us in New York, drunk in the streets, throwing our shoes in the fountains, in Salt Lake, throwing our legs in the fountains, in Cincinnati throwing our bodies in the fountains; your skirt rising and falling with the motion of the water, swimming and tangling around your legs. I could see us talking shit on a train to Alberta. I could see us lighting bottle rockets into West Texas. I could see us just sitting at home staring at each others’ eyes, wondering what we were even thinking. And then I could see us done, the dream over, gone, like we’d never even been.

I knew all of that and there was nothing romantic about it. Who the hell do we think we are?