“So it was pretty bad.” “Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry.” “Yeah, it’s not your fault.”
“Did you... do you think about killing yourself?” “I thought about not wanting to be that way anymore.”
“Are you still...” “I don’t know.” I let out a long, slow breath, and watched the steam of it disappear in the winter air.
“I think maybe I’m like the White River. Non-navigable.” “But that’s not the point of the story, Holmesy.
The point of the story is they built the city anyway, you know? You work with what you have.
They had this shit river, and they managed to build an okay city around it. Not a great city, maybe.
But not bad. You’re not the river. You’re the city.“So, I’m not bad?”
“Correct. You’re a solid B-plus. If you can build a B-plus city with C-minus geography, that’s pretty great.” I laughed.
Beside me, Daisy lay down and motioned for me to lie next to her.
We were looking up, our heads near the trunk of that lone oak tree,
the sky smoke-gray above us past our fogged breath, the leafless branches intersecting overhead.
I don’t know if I’d ever told Daisy about that—if she lay down at precisely that moment because she knew how much I loved seeing the sky cut up.
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