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Dear *Marcus,

Do you remember the song?

Actually, there were two. If I remember correct, we almost blew a red light during that one.

But the ballad? From that night? When we drove around the city. For hours and hours. When you pointed at the street lights, and you said what you said? By the way, they still aren’t synced.

And when I told what happened at the restaurant, giggling? And you were, surprisingly, upset with me. And you set me straight. Grown up hindsight – you were right. If it’s any consolation, I’m an over-tipper.

Remember what you said when you realized the time, and you drove me home? Not to my house, but a friend’s.
As you drove, that ballad, slow song, perfect song played. Totally fitting. Suiting the situation. Well, sort of. I didn’t listen to all the lyrics. And I smiled at you and I reclined my seat. Fine, what you said was correct.

Maybe you don’t want to remember that night. I understand. Maybe you don’t remember what you said about the street lights. Perfectly fine.

And maybe you don’t remember the song. Maybe you didn’t realize the song was playing. Or you don’t want to remember.

Sometimes, it really is too late.


*Name changed for privacy