you told me a story once about an old boyfriend who left me for someone else. they were still together many years later. they did what you do, and they went and bought a house. you went to the housewarming and bought them a ginkgo tree. they didn't know about it being male or anything about botany, that the trees roots would grow uncontrollably, or that it'd smell like vomit when it flowers.
i don't know why you told me that. it always makes me sad. because when you say them again, you asked them where it went. they didn't remember who it was from, and when it damaged the foundation they plucked it out.
you told me a story once about an old boyfriend who used to play the guitar. decades later you saw him again. he's got a wife, three kids, a nice house, and a new car. he'd given up his master's degree in performance for a cushy job as a corporate accountant. worst of all when you asked him how his music went, he said he didn't play anymore.
and dumbfounded, his wife said he didn't even own an instrument, that she'd never seen him play or knew the life he once lived, when all he had was his fingernails and his calluses.
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