the love song of alfred prufrock

we were exchanging stories. she was curled up on my bed, opening and closing her cell phone. i was lying on the rough carpet with my feet propped up against the wooden chair. she told me about the time she slept in the old victorian barn with her friends, and there were dead bugs everywhere. and i remembered this:

we were young and restless and very cliche. we were slim and tan and our hair was long and lightened from hours under the sun. having spent the day trolling through the city, sweating in the midwestern heat, we were ready to collapse onto the bed... except that, you know, she had no bed. the loft was huge, with window walls and hard wood floors, but there were no beds. just 2 sofas, a small tv, a nice little kitchen, 2 bathrooms, and 3 empty rooms. they didn't live there, just owned the place.

so we sat on the couch and watched "scary" movies that really weren't so bad. there was one boy. he was cute and gentle and he touched my leg and i wished i had shaved. he whispered in my ear but then he snuggled up to another girl and it was all very young and restless and cliche. he was scared of the movies. (whyy are they all scared of the movies!?) he fell asleep on my lap. i was still awake. they were still awake. so we stayed up. we looked out the window at the empty streets, the only time i've ever seen those streets bare. we watched the clock, we filled up the red plastic cups and waited.

then it began. the sky began to pale with morning and the streetlights turned off. i pushed his head off of my lap, he was the only one asleep. we ran out to the roof, we stood at the top and it was cold. we screamed. we were exhausted and we needed to shower but we stood there and watched the sun rise over lake michigan: blinding, endless, self-conscious. ten hours later i find myself on the floor with wood-plank indents in my cheeks. my head throbs and my eyes are sealed shut with sand, and it is afternoon.

it was the closest thing to a perfect day i've ever experienced.

i tell her the story and she shrugs. she talks about her boyfriends and london. i smile and transport back to the chicago rooftop. my bare limbs grow cold, remembering summer.





what's your most perfect memory?