He took me to his burnt chocolate room down the street, evening air crisp and soft folds of blue. Sang Georgia in low moans and looked away when done, felt at ease in this newest of places. After Dave shows me more and gives choices, I tell him to choose and he gives me Old Bay and spices and pasta and good juice that's not really juice. More soft blue, his clothes in shades of grey. We can't ever make Tuesday Pasta again.
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