It was raining lightly, and the windshield-wipers on your ancient, green, hand-me-down car had no intermittent setting, so they kept making this God-awful scraping whine as they dragged across the glass.
I remember that the pale blue glow of the instruments highlighted the circles under your eyes.
I remember that I told you your relationship was destructive, and that you had better ditch out ASAP, but I think you thought I was too biased to be believed.
Maybe I was.
We were kind of quiet after that.
The bluffs were silent, you were melancholy, and I was self-righteous.
Maybe we all were all three.
Maybe you don't remember, but I do, and I just wanted to let you know.
Yes, you.
Sorry.
