Each day I'd get up at ten or eleven, stroll over to Twin Peaks, an old, luxurious bar with velvet cushions on the benches and drinks served in glasses that you drank with your pinky raised up.
We were sitting on a couch. On the TV, men in tights were causing each other serious pain. “I think I’m standing still,” I said. “I think I need to move.”
We know that our stories will have happy endings, partly because we are so determined to make the endings happy, and partly because it’s gotta be better than what we have now.
