Your hair is a mess and your smile stings. My tongue trips. You say you know what I mean. The time disappears as the words finally slip. You call me out and I stare at the floor. The empty glasses on the table begin to pile like medals. We both chug from our cups, not knowing what to say next. Wondering if we have said too much, or perhaps, not enough. Quick glances suggest that there might be more, but I wont say.

Next thing I know we are on the road. Jammed in a backseat swaying with corners. Your hand finds my knee and decides to stay.  I think it feels nice. Right.

I watch your steps as you walk to your door. Careful. Implied.

I try to mimic them as I climb the stairs to my own. But mine are unsteady.

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[par-uh-shoot] noun, verb, -chut·ed, -chut·ing.
a folding, umbrellalike, fabric device for allowing a person, to float down safely through the air from a great height.

“But it’s hard to stay mad when there’s so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once and it’s too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life.” — American Beauty