This has been said so many times that I'm not sure if it matters
We never stood a chance
And I'm not sure if it matters
If you are the shores, I am the waves begging for big moons
I'm mailing letters to addresses in a ghost town
Your secret's out
-Fall Out Boy

"I still have all your emails," she says, twirling her keys on her index finger. I'm watching her car keys get tangled with this cheap foam slipper keychain. She stops when she notices that I'm not looking at her. "Did you know that?"

"No, I didn't," I answer, leaning back into my chair. It's 9:37pm on a Wednesday night and I was desperate enough to call Leslie for company. "How come you kept them?" It was a terrible idea to meet at Starbucks. It's just so lesbian.

"I dunno." she leans forward and rests her chin in the palm of her hand. She has long, dark wavy hair that catches our evening breeze and finds a way to carress her bare shoulders. Even though I don't personally think she's pretty, she is still strangely attractive to me. She's wearing a white tank top and jeans, which is something I've come to associate her with even now.

"Plans for later tonight?" I ask.

"Meeting up with my girlfriend," she says with a very matter-of-fact tone. "We're gonna go bowling."

"How romantic."

"Why? What are your plans?" I can feel her sliding her foot against the back of my calf. "Will you be busy?"

"Maybe. Tell me about your girlfriend."

"Why?"

I shrug. "I'm curious?"

"She was Danielle's ex. You know, Danielle, my ex. We started talking a few weeks ago and ended up making out at the club one night," she explains. She fixes the straps of her tank top and pulls down her shirt. "That's all. Do you remember sending me those emails?"

"Those emails from ages ago?" I ask.

"Yeah, those." I don't remember those emails very well. But I tell her that I do because I feel like those words must have meant something to her.

"Of course," I answer. "I was dating this really awful girl at the time and so were you. We used to talk about what terrible timing we had. How every time you were single, I was taken. And everytime I was single, you were taken. Like now."

"And you used to write me poems. These really beautiful, passionate poems. That's why I kept your emails. Words like that don't get written every day," she sighs. She looks sad for a moment, but it quickly fades.

"What's wrong?" I reach out for her hand and gently squeeze it. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, no. I'm cool. Just tired. I don't think I'm gonna meet my girlfriend tonight. It's getting late. Walk me to my car?" She rubs her hands on her jeans and reaches for her keys, but I grab them before she does.

"Yeah, of course. I got it." Our chairs grind against the concrete and echo in the empty parking lot. Everyone has left already because the nearby mall has just closed. "Which is your car?"

"It's there. The Sentra," she says, pointing to a white car in the distance. When we walk together, I can feel her fingertips running up and down the curve of my back. I turn to look at her and she says, "Hey."

I smile. "Hey."

Her car has a thin film of dirt on it, but she still leans up against it. "Come here." I put my hands in my pockets and walk up to her. She touches my arm and then pulls me closer to her. I feel bad, but not because she has a girlfriend. Leslie and I have a weird relationship; it's one of poor timing and no morals. So this situation isn't new. The feel of her skin against mine doesn't feel new. The smell of her wavy hair and the way the street lights kiss her body are not new either. We've done this a million times before. But yet, I feel bad. I feel bad that she thinks I have so much to give, when really, I have nothing at all.

I bring my lips close to hers, but they do not touch. "Should I stop?" I whisper. But before she can answer, I kiss her. It was one of those kisses where I felt as if I left my body to watch myself fuck up. I watch myself kiss her and trace her body with my hands. I watch myself pretend to be interested and passionate.

She finally pulls away for air. "Wow. I wasn't expecting that to happen," she says, even though we both expect this every time.

"You'd better get going," I tell her, handing her her keys. "It's getting late."

She touches my lips with her index finger and smiles. "You kiss like you write."

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