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by Amanda McLeod

Hey, remember when we went up on the roof with our beers and looked for satellites? Man, we were crazy back then. I was clumsy enough already without having a beer buzz. You used to tell people I’d trip over air. Sometimes I did.

We spent hours up there, under the stars. We talked about love, theories of everything, what we’d do if each other died. You always told me you’d want me to move on, find someone else. I found the whole conversation excruciating; I hate pondering mortality. I laughed and said you didn’t have to worry about those decisions because I was going to live forever.

You’d go sit on the roof when you had big decisions to make. You said it was quieter up there, cooler; you could think clearly. Sometimes you’d come home distracted, muttering, and your foot would disappear up past the eaves before I could ask what you needed to think about. I wondered if you were thinking about leaving me.

I never should have left you up there that last night. We had too many beers and we argued but we always used to argue about stupid things and five minutes later argue about how stupid it was to argue about something so stupid. Now I’m the one doing the thinking, for both of us. But all I can think is, if I’d just let it go, maybe you wouldn’t be stuck in that room, on a respirator. And I wouldn’t be stuck in this hallway with my guilt.


Amanda McLeod creates fiction and art in Canberra, Australia. Her fiction can be found in Crack the Spine, Ink In Thirds, Five2One’s #thesideshow, and other places. Find her on Twitter @AmandaMWrites.

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