I hear people quoting lyrics, singing lines of a story that I know first hand.

I just rediscovered a little something I jotted down after my trip out to see him. It wouldn't make a good song; it wouldn't even make good prose. But I'm so fascinated that we have such vastly different takes on the same event.

Alone with him in a black room. His palm in the small of my back, guiding me. His suede jacket enveloping me, smelling of too many clubs and too much tobacco. Packing for the long trip ahead. It’s late; I’ve had too many beers; we need coffee. We need a feast! The coffeeshop is closed. Thirty miles later, there is thick liquid masquerading as coffee. Cream, no sugar. These are the farms my ancestors worked. He wants to go see them sometime. Concrete barriers go whizzing by. 3am. What should we do, he asks. Falling asleep to the television. Going downstairs in the morning to get driving directions for me, orange juice for him. Cream, no sugar. Cigarettes and a paint-by-number Jesus.