A Memory

8 / 28

The room was ramshackle at best. I slept on a mattress that balanced on a cabinet. My best friend’s bed was on the floor. We had one shared dresser, and a wardrobe but no hangers. There was a questionable couch, a small bookcase, a coffee table, and a cupboard we took to keeping liquor in. The only mirror in the room had been smashed and re-arranged in a poor attempt at art. The floor was scuffed and marked, the walls half-heartedly half-painted. One window wouldn’t open and the other led out onto the fire escape, a popular entry point for squirrels. 

We loved it.

That room represented freedom. It represented escape. It represented good times, good memories, and good weed. 

Our liquor cabinet inspired jealousy. Martini glasses, champagne flutes, vodka, rum, blue curaçao, and maraschino cherries. The pièce de résistance was a loaf of bread we bought in July that hadn’t gone stale by August. After two weeks we began keeping it there as an experiment; did American bread ever go off?

We took to making a cocktail we dubbed “Blue Drink,” and donned blue lips to go with it. We worked at a popular bar, taking home $200 a night. We shopped, we drank, we partied, we fell in love. 

In the afternoons we would buy books at the Harvard Book Store and read them in the college grounds, then go for walks along the Charles. We weren’t fooling ourselves, we knew. We knew that this was temporary. We wanted to believe it could last forever but we knew that even the slightest hint of permanence would bring the whole thing tumbling down. Some things work best on a timer.

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