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SLEEPING WITH STARS At฀the฀Ditto฀Tavern฀in฀1990, nights฀were฀blurry฀copies฀of฀copies, speakers฀and฀woofers, and฀bass฀lines฀repeated฀themselves like฀angry฀cops.฀Damn,฀you฀were฀tan: you฀took฀off฀your฀Sub฀Pop฀T฀backstage, and฀its฀ghost฀remained,฀a฀torso,฀like฀that฀freaky Winged฀Victory฀in฀the฀Louvre. Your฀forearms,฀neck,฀and฀face฀were฀brown, and฀wrinkles฀waited฀in฀the฀wings฀of฀your฀smooth cool฀skin.฀Oh,฀yes,฀you฀were฀cool. (Your฀weight:฀110.฀Your฀boyfriend:฀grunge musician.)฀Your฀coolness฀coated฀me in฀sunblock—the฀kind฀that฀wears฀off฀in฀an฀hour. So฀friend,฀it’s฀2005,฀and฀we’re฀semi-old฀ladies, and฀Stephen฀Hawking฀says฀black฀holes don’t฀obliterate฀matter฀(or฀if฀they฀do,฀it’s฀not฀forever)— so฀let’s฀barge฀backwards฀and฀march฀our฀girl selves฀down฀to฀the฀ferry฀terminal฀where฀Seattle’s not฀cool,฀just฀rainy.฀Your฀tan฀fades.฀Your฀knuckles turn฀pale฀and฀salty.฀The฀stars฀are฀lost฀in฀veils of฀mist.฀You฀can’t฀orient฀yourself฀celestially. Now฀will฀you฀take฀my฀hand฀at฀last? Now฀will฀you฀look฀at฀me? 55 ...

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