An Open Letter to Michael Harrington

Exit, M. Harrington.

Don't you remember, it was weather like this last year that sparked us. There was the same doomy disintegration of inhibitions and the winter months both, when girls wear short shorts and flips irregardless of the temperatures, based only on the sun being out.
It is the time to sit outside, or inside, and read books instead of watching television.
These memories are from before the days you shamed me.
Or, I shamed you.
Whichever happened first.
Isn't time funny? The way it erases everything. Do you even remember the things I'm going to tell you next?
This is when we were still almost sneaking around in secret.
When you would come to my window instead, if you had been invited through the door.
When I would wait quietly for you to wake up, not eating because I couldn't afford it but sucking my nutrients through cheap gin and grapefruit juice.
When men in motorcycles were still whisking me away for hot dogs adventures.
When I still always had the flask. Was always sitting in the driveway. Was always walking to or from somewhere.
This is when we were born, sitting on the porch together, doing things I can't imagine now like discovering each other. Like, making out.
These things in secret, under the cover of darkness or rainclouds.
I remember the time when your voice on the phone was still a sexy surprise. When I knew your schedule perfectly. When watched you through a reflection of your reflection and sat on the stoop outside waiting for you to walk by.
This was me, pursuing you.
Eventually we began touching each other. We used to get breakfast and hold hands. I don't remember who said I Love You first but I get the feeling it was you.
We walked home in the light of the morning. We talked about having two kids together.
Two boys. Tom Ward III wanted to bake our wedding cake for us.
The is when people still accepted me. As yours.
It is hard for me to relearn my place in the summertime, because last summer was my favorite.
These were the times when I was still hanging out with your friends because they were our friends and not because I wanted to sleep with them (or so you say now.)
When you wanted to go place with me all the time. When I was still in awe of you. Afraid of you (in a way that is different from the way I am afraid now.)
When you still acted impressed by my Polaroid skills and we used to nap together on the orange couch.
We had such dreams then. I was going to be a writer and you the photographer. We were going to travel around the world together. Reviewing restaurants.
We were going to own our own book store, with a cafe that I would run and a printing press where we would publish ourselves and other worthy and obscure young people.
This is when we shared dreams and ambitions.
Before you became confused and thought you still loved me when you were just horny.
Before I placated you because I cared more about your mental instability than mine.
This was when we sat in the park and drank a six pack.