Do you remember that old blue house in Ocean City, with the decaying bay windows?
Do you recall the aging cream kitchen fridge stocked with beer and rum?
The decrepit bathroom that no one used because it was also the laundry room, and the white ancient washer with the backwards cold and hot water knobs? Is your memory still filled with all the times I shrunk my clothes because I forgot cold was hot and hot was cold?
What about the way we reorganized my bedroom, so that the king sized bed was up against the closet, when Luke left? It was then that it became ours.
And the living room with the old tenants’ art all over the walls. The shards of glass lining the stairway that we used to cut ourselves on. I love lamp scrawled above the doorway to the kitchen.
The kitchen with the old-fashioned stove and dishwasher built into the wall; the blue dishwasher that girl broke before we even moved in.
Do you remember the shag carpet in our roommate’s room — the one we used to spy on when he was having sex with her? Or the triangular ceiling?
Do your memories consist of that time we gathered pillows in the empty back bedroom and all sat around in a circle for reasons unknown? Or the tiled bathroom with the aqua bathtub that had a hole in it, which I always thought looked like a bird?
The walls in the hallway were covered with our bad graffiti — do you know what they said?
Can you picture hiding under my Starry Night blanket, smoking cigarettes because we weren’t allowed to inside? Can you paint a portrait of the ripped screens on the front porch, or my muddy parking spot out back?
Do you remember that house on 17th Street and Bay Ave. in Ocean City, the one that no longer has bay windows?
Do you remember where we fell in love?
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