One of my favorite memories is probably not even true.
I remember standing barefoot in the kitchen of a garage apartment, wearing a man's shirt, measuring coffee into a filter. The floor under my feet was rough and slanted. It dipped unpredictably. I stood in front of the coffee maker, curling my toes against the rough floor.
My favorite person was sleeping. He must have been sleeping.
I made coffee in the quiet thrill of early morning.
But I think that might be made up.
I always was a late sleeper, back then.