why i don't care about the moon

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.