They say that you were too young to love Spencer, that you didn’t know what you needed. You thought you were too cool to know him, he says that you’re like ice, churning out novels like a beat poet on amphetamines.

Well, your boyfriend’s in a band. He played guitar while you sang Lou Reed, with feathers in your hair and whilst getting down to beat poetry. And your jazz collection’s rare, you could play most anything. You were a Brooklyn baby.

People judged you like a picture book, by the colors, like they forgot to read. You thought that you and Spencer were like fire and water, or like the wind and sea. If he was burning up, you were cooling down, he was up, you were down, he was blind, you were his sight.

The two of you shared an apartment in downtown Brooklyn, decorated with guitars and CDs on the walls. It had been yet another late night, playing gigs in a bar with your boyfriend and his band. Your fishnet gloves had long been ripped and your hair was spiking out of its claw clip. Spencer looked as exhilarated as ever.

You stumbled through the door, tripping over your own feet as a result of the booze and hydroponic weed. Spencer caught you, just in time, pulling you into his arms. You giggled as he wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on top of your head.

“You never learn, do you?” He murmured. He was still wearing his leather jacket, the one that you loved to wear. His scent of cologne lingered on its collar.