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I
wonder
if
I
tried
,
if
I
could
feel
him
touching
me
.
If
I
were
to
lie
down
on
top
of
myself
in
the
bed
,
would
I
become
one
with
my
body
again
?
Would
I
feel
him
then
?
If
I
reached
out
my
ghostly
hand
to
his
,
would
he
feel
me
?
Would
he
warm
the
hands
he
cannot
see
?
Adam
drops
my
hand
and
steps
forward
to
look
at
me
.
He
is
standing
so
close
that
I
can
almost
smell
him
and
I
’
m
overpowered
by
the
need
to
touch
him
.
It
’
s
basic
,
primal
,
and
all
-
consuming
the
way
a
baby
needs
its
mother
’
s
breast
.
Even
though
I
know
,
if
we
touch
,
a
new
tug
-
of
-
war
—
one
that
will
be
even
more
painful
than
the
quiet
one
Adam
and
I
have
been
waging
these
past
few
months
—
will
begin
.
Adam
is
mumbling
something
now
.
In
a
low
voice
.
Over
and
over
he
is
saying
:
please
.
Please
.
Please
.
Please
.
Please
.
Please
.
Please
.
Please
.
Please
.
Please
.
Finally
,
he
stops
and
looks
at
my
face
.
"
Please
,
Mia
,
"
he
implores
.
"
Don
’
t
make
me
write
a
song
.
"
I
’
d
never
expected
to
fall
in
love
.
I
was
never
the
kind
of
girl
who
had
crushes
on
rock
stars
or
fantasies
about
marrying
Brad
Pitt
.
I
sort
of
vaguely
knew
that
one
day
I
’
d
probably
have
boyfriends
(
in
college
,
if
Kim
’
s
prediction
was
anything
to
go
by
)
and
get
married
.
I
wasn
’
t
totally
immune
to
the
charms
of
the
opposite
sex
,
but
I
wasn
’
t
one
of
those
romantic
,
swoony
girls
who
had
pink
fluffy
daydreams
about
falling
in
love
.
Even
as
I
was
falling
in
love
—
full
throttle
,
intense
,
can
’
t
-
erase
-
that
-
goofy
-
smile
love
—
I
didn
’
t
really
register
what
was
happening
.
When
I
was
with
Adam
,
at
least
after
those
first
few
awkward
weeks
,
I
felt
so
good
that
I
didn
’
t
bother
thinking
about
what
was
going
on
with
me
,
with
us
.
It
just
felt
normal
and
right
,
like
slipping
into
a
hot
bubble
bath
.
Which
isn
’
t
to
say
we
didn
’
t
fight
.
We
argued
over
lots
of
stuff
:
him
not
being
nice
enough
to
Kim
,
me
being
antisocial
at
shows
,
how
fast
he
drove
,
how
I
stole
the
covers
.
I
got
upset
because
he
never
wrote
any
songs
about
me
.
He
claimed
he
wasn
’
t
good
with
sappy
love
songs
:
"
If
you
want
a
song
,
you
’
ll
have
to
cheat
on
me
or
something
,
"
he
said
,
knowing
full
well
that
wasn
’
t
going
to
happen
.
This
past
fall
,
though
,
Adam
and
I
started
to
have
a
different
kind
of
fight
.
It
wasn
’
t
even
a
fight
,
really
.
We
didn
’
t
shout
.
We
barely
even
argued
,
but
a
snake
of
tension
quietly
slithered
into
our
lives
.
And
it
seemed
like
it
all
started
with
my
Juilliard
audition
.
"
So
did
you
knock
them
dead
?
"
Adam
asked
me
when
I
got
back
.
"
They
gonna
let
you
in
with
a
full
scholarship
?
"
I
had
a
feeling
that
they
were
going
to
let
me
in
,
at
least
—
even
before
I
told
Professor
Christie
about
the
one
judge
’
s
"
long
time
since
we
’
ve
had
an
Oregon
country
girl
"
comment
,
even
before
she
hyperventilated
because
she
was
so
convinced
this
was
a
tacit
promise
of
admission
.
Something
had
happened
to
my
playing
in
that
audition
;
I
had
broken
through
some
invisible
barrier
and
could
finally
play
the
pieces
like
I
heard
them
being
played
in
my
head
,
and
the
result
had
been
something
transcendent
:
the
mental
and
physical
,
the
technical
and
emotional
sides
of
my
abilities
all
finally
blending
.
Then
,
on
the
drive
home
,
as
Gramps
and
I
were
approaching
the
California
-
Oregon
border
,
I
just
had
this
sudden
flash
—
a
vision
of
me
lugging
a
cello
through
New
York
City
.
And
it
was
like
I
knew
,
and
that
certainty
planted
itself
in
my
belly
like
a
warm
secret
.
I
’
m
not
the
kind
of
person
who
’
s
prone
to
premonitions
or
overconfidence
,
so
I
suspected
that
there
was
more
to
my
flash
than
magical
thinking
.
