My car smells likne the coffee we drank. We didn't drink it in my car.
The motions felt practiced, rehearsed, and they were, a dance we had done a thousand times. Yet it still felt new.
Every time can feel like the first, given the right point of reference.
She drinks coffee now, and smokes cigarettes on the counter in her underwear. Some things are new.
She still steals them out of my pack if I have more. Some things never change.
I wish I could grow a mustache.
But really, are you ok?
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