The first time we slept together was in a kitchen in Brooklyn. Well, you slept. Having stumbled from a little dive called The Alibi, we found ourselves attempting to slumber half-propped up on a small couch with an office chair for our feet. She'd snickered at me as she took his hand and led him into her room. We had one of those cracked-out conversations that are only possible after a day like ours- miles and miles propelled by caffeine and a carton of cigarettes. Only possible when you can stare at the ceiling and avoid eye contact. When your breathing evened out, I was incredulous. Taking up exactly half of the couch, ankles cross on the office chair, hands fucking clasped at your waist. In sleep I resemble a spider gone splat. It was here, while I watched you sleep, that I knew I was in trouble.
Just about everything in my adult life can be traced back to Penn Station, exactly seven years ago today.