red means stop

29 Nov

There are things, small things, hardly anything things that I remember while I’m in the shower or chopping onions or scrolling through Tumblr that have almost completely been wiped from my memory by time, mainly, to make room for things that might actually mean something. But even if it happened with a girl I no longer speak with and the boy who fancied her and grew to hate me for breaking up with Magician (or whatever), I don’t want to forget that there was a night during the summer after our high school graduation wherein this boy drove us to a wealthy neighborhood, parked his fancy rich boy car next to a million dollar mansion, and lead us through a fence or some bushes or a narrow path to a place known as Baby’s Cry for the call of the birds gathered in the dark on a cliff overlooking the sea. And there were people on the rocks, ten other kids at least, looking at each other, out into the dark, drinking, smoking, being young and free and burning that moment into my mind, the giant house to the right with the red light in the window, wanting to stay and be and hold tight to all of it, the perfect time and place for an existential teenage passage in the indie film that was my life, but not really. Because we walked back to the car after standing upon the cliff for a few moments to hear the cry, to nod at the people who turned to look at us, and to notice the glowing red light from the house above. And the boy drove me home, drove her home, drove home himself, and the night was over, and nothing happened.


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