There isn't a seesaw in the world I wouldn't lick to get you out of your head. Yesterday we dropped $14 on root beer and you could only stare listlessly at the ingredients. You'll find nothing there I assure you. I picked up your fingers and traced them and again you stared. I put a couple of them in my mouth and for a second your expression changed. Honestly, there isn't a swing set in the whole continental U.S. that I wouldn't grope.

Drinking the root beer, we made our way past the ocean, but the walk wasn't conveyed well in that sentence. It lasted years. The ocean, it should seem, is very long, and I've heard things about its depth. There wasn't enough root beer. By the 91st mile you started to lose your inhibitions, and I smiled in a way that was unintentionally maniacal. I never know what my face is doing. But you began to speak very quickly and I wasn't too worried that you cared. You told me about this little kid in your neighborhood when you were seven years old. His name was Hunter and you thought it was stupid motherfucking name and you told him so - daily.

Hunter would walk his scooter everywhere but refused to ride it. Once that made you so angry that you picked it up and threw it over a fence. Hunter didn't yell or cry, but he just stared after it – even more vapidly than you've been staring for the past 90 miles. The thought shocked me when you said it. I wonder if you also don't know what your face is doing. No matter. So Hunter was staring through the fence and your guilt was slowly creeping up your esophagus and into more powerful anatomy. Finally it reached your throat and you threw up. Luckily you missed your shoes, and Hunter, and the scooter, but it looked like there was a snail. Not like you were about to investigate further or anything. And then you ran. You ran for eight blocks and then sat down and fell asleep.

That was where you very suddenly stopped telling me the story. My eyes lingered on your nose while I wondered if you were trying to articulate the moral or the way in which this event shaped your stunted personality. After a few hours of this I realized there was nothing more and we walked on. I gathered up some courage and said: “it probably wasn't a snail. It was probably just a rock or something.” You nodded while looking at your feet. Oh god, I only wanted to give you a hug – the kind of hug you could live in. There isn't a jungle gym in Africa that I wouldn't punch. Eventually we found a crab on the beach and you began to laugh. I think I was glad that you were glad but I didn't know why it was happening and so I began to feel isolated and paralyzed. You picked up the crab and set it on my shoulder. It was a little bit painful since my shirt was thin. I didn't really know what to do so I stood like that for a few days. My shoulders ached like statues.

Eventually we reached the end of the ocean, and by then we were speaking freely. There isn't a set of monkey bars in all of Asia that I wouldn't sleep on to make you love me.

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