How It Started
How It Started

You had just turned fourteen
and I was just shy
of seventeen.

I know because it was February.

I know it was February 
because it was the first 
in a string of snow days
leading up to my birthday.

A bunch of us had ascended 
that crazy, winding hill on Brant Street 
to get to Steve's house
with schoolbags full of beer
and shitty weed.

Steve was probably the least
cool of all of us, but his
father was successful and the house 
on the hill had a basement
furnished with a pool table, dartboard,
air-hockey and a bar. 

I met you by the stereo
that Steve had warned everyone
was German and not to be fucked with.

You were rifling through the records,
crying. You had wine on your shirt.


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