I walk through a night lit up with street lights and pulsing with teenagers having a good time. I never a had a good time.

I can't have a conversation of bodies the way some people can. I saw an old roommate last week. She's doing well. She said “Do you remember?” alot. And I did, sort of.

Her memories were about the bars. The way men would dance with her easily, kiss her, and they'd go home together. A conversation of bodies. I was never there because I couldn't handle that sort of night. But I remember the stories the next morning, already losing the sharp edges of fact and turning rapidly into lore. Stories really do bring people together, even when they're not true or only half true. Now they're the only way we can speak to one another.

I'll see here again in five years and we'll tell the same stories and I'll remember it however she tells it because I like the revisionist history where I had a good time.