And I fall for this story, again and again and again:
We counted license plates (one California, two Massachusetts, three Washington, four Pennsylvania) and you ate a ham and cheese sandwich and I ate grapes
We took the subway and faced each other, not knowing my middle name was Faye and yours was James.
We met at a record store where you stated your favorite Beatle is John and I bought 14 records, one each day for two weeks straight, just to look at you while you gave me my change.
We rode in the back of a pickup truck and stood up when we went through the tunnel, and you looked at me and whispered sweet, perfect words in my ear that the rest of the world missed out on.
We laid on the cracked leather and pointed out the stars and constellations through the closed roof of the car.
We argued about the paradox of love and whether I really knew what the word paradox meant.
We dizzily danced at your sister’s wedding, even though we hated the guy she married.
We sat next to each other on an airplane where we were each reading the same book, and both ate soggy vegetarian airplane meals.
We both ordered medium coffees, light on the skim milk at the same time, 10:30, from the same coffeeshop every day for two years before speaking.
We saw each other from across the room at a party where I was ordering a Shirley temple and you drinking your fourth vodka on the rocks.
We fought into the night until the sun came up again and I said you acted like an asshole and you said I was a bitch.
We kissed over and over again and counted the freckles on each other’s bodies (mine, 10, yours, 12) for the last time.
We smoldered, chocked, fooled, broke, stole, slipped, escaped, sang, laughed, tripped, fell.
I and you and me and we and they.
(I fell for this story again.) And again. And again.