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We lunched at dinner that one day. She got the shish kebab with the palm frites. I got the sultani plate with rice. We shared the babaganoush. The place was empty. Just for us. No one ever came in here. It was the best mediteranean I’ve ever had to this day. The madam running the operation was a little old Korean lady. A Korean lady running a middle eastern food place that was better than most Greek places run by a Greek. We laughed and played peekaboo with our eyes. It was delicious. We sat there for another hour or so sitting off the food drunk. Just sat. Our mouths needed a break from the exercise so we didn’t really talk. Just lived. Stared out the window. Drank our yogurt drinks. I snuck discreet peeks of her face from the side. I was still discovering seeing her from different angles and perspectives and there wasn’t a side of her I didn’t like yet. There was nothing ugly or out of place about her. She was the embodiment of perfect as much as there was room for any definition of that word in my mind, somewhere. Maybe she wasn’t someone else’s perfect but to me she was the best of anyone to me – models, celebrities, my mother, Denise Richards, Jolie-Shitt. No one held a candle to her looks, her voice, her thoughts, her brain power, her poise, her style goddamn it she had style and pride and principles. I usually hate everyone’s “quirks.” They usually annoy me. She could behave like a child and annoy me for me moments but when we lived I loved every goddamn second of it. And we just lived and I basked in the warmth and appreciation from the awareness that this is happiness and I knew that it would end in a few short weeks. I decided to let time linger for a second. I tried to remember not to forget. But here I am. 4 years later. Dim on the details like an 80 year old war vet about the sweet sweet days after the war ended. The excitement still in the air but… no rush. Just jobs. They say we remember the good moments more often than the bad. Maybe that’s true for some people who say they do to you, but me, I dunno. The old ones I know always seem to remember the misery and hunger much more than having a house and waking up and tying shoelaces and getting in the car to going to work. I dunno. I think we like to lie to ourselves to be happy and that’s ok I guess. But then that’s also how life fucks you. And when you want time to fly, time crawls, and when you beg it with all your heart and soul to slow the fuck down, that fucker speeds up and takes you out so fast and so hard that even Terry looked like a pussy in that office and you can’t remember all the good times you had just some but maybe hopefully in all their delicious precious detail. Then again… maybe its a curse. Oh well. Guess I should figure out what’s for dinner tonight.

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