So, I stopped myself from sending you a post. It would’ve earned a chuckle, and you’d have confirmation that I remember things about you and that you still surface from time to time. Like a whiteboard stain.


I romanticised my English teacher when I saw pictures of his newly furnished house. Wooden panels, artistically placed photographs he no doubt collected. A curtain separating the living room from the bedroom, used also to dim the lights for movies on the couch. A personal cinema. Someone could lay their head on his lap (I still can’t decide if it’s a man or a woman), whilst he holds a glass of wine, as he does after an evening of marking. On a school night, as he seems to be in the cheeky habit of doing and admitting. He’d put on his favourite movies, or they would watch a new cinematic masterpiece together and discuss it’s merits and downfalls. “Well that was shit…” I can imagine him saying. Or he’d bury his face in his hands, mouth slightly open. “I just can’t believe we spent two fucking hours watching that”, and they’d both burst out laughing. “Horrendous”, she’d/ he’d say. “Just awful“. And it’d become a running joke, with lines from the movie quoted and recited back and forth. It’d be one of those deeply inspiring relationships, full of beautiful lively moments. Good stories to tell. They’d see jazz performers, experience sunrises and green smoothies together, spend nights soaking in music from speakers he’d saved up to buy… I respect anyone who, though lives humbly, owns a pair of high quality speakers. I will marry you for that and your bookshelf.


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