I'm carrying words with me, both literally and figuratively. I'm repeating the verses in my head, out loud, whispering it into the last wave of heat, the last dying gasp of summer. Foreign to us and local to them.
It's been two years, but I feel like I only truly miss him now--now that I'm ready to write him the letter that he probably waited for. We promised that we'd reconnect in our mid-twenties. Well, here we are. Or rather, here I am. He didn't make it.
In these days, a lot of my thoughts are reserved for Kenny.
"Are you actresses?"
We both laughed awkwardly. "No." He waited for us to explain what it is that we actually do.
She looked back at me, before answering on our behalf, "She's a writer. I'm a photographer." Leave it to Natty, to sum up the situation, neatly, tidily, truthfully, yet somehow completely inaccurately.
"Really? What kind of a writer?"
"I'm a journalist," I answered, confidently. A lie. Yet not.
"Really? Who do you write for?"
I write for myself.