Certain:

When I think of you now, I just remember one night. I remember the night before you had to leave the first time, the night when we made all that pasta. We were so hungry, and all day we talked about all the pasta we were going to make, and all the things we were going to put in it, and how we couldn’t wait to eat it, and then we made it and there was so much, it just sat there on our plates untouched while we ended up finishing the bottle of wine on the floor near the stereo, and all the lights were low and our faces were pink from the wine and from laughing so hard, and we sat next to the speakers and whispered and laughed and drew fake tattoos on each others’ arms, and suddenly it went from 11 to 3, but we were afraid to walk the thirty feet to the bedroom because then the magic might leave, because we thought the magic was in that room, not us, so you dragged the mattress off the bed, sheets and all, and pulled it into this room, pushing the table out of the way, the plates of pasta still sitting there patiently, and we laid on the bed on the floor and listened to The Sea and Cake and read the mermaid book together, the rain falling steadily on the roof, and I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember suddenly being very certain that the world would never end.