sat around a campfire and listened to way back when's, wishing i'd live to sit at a campfire and share something seemingly pretty.

"back then, the diner's were the in place," was how he began every story. it was always the later summer and the later of evening and the later of the 90 degrees, but we'd let our legs be eaten up by bugs anyway. he'd tell us everything that came to mind, usually making up things along the way because he forgot a lot of details. like his first love, who he mentioned all the time; her name was always different. i always thought it was cute that despite his obvious senile tendencies, he could still tell you his wife's favorite ice cream toppings and how she hated dishes but she loved laundry because of how it smelled when it was fresh from the dryer. that night was more than a diner, though. that night was more than made up names and altered stories and biased viewpoints.

that night, he told us about the man who was always at the diner on saturdays at noon. he said that he switched between five outfits, and it never failed. everything matched, and there was never a time that he mix matched. he'd take the same ten steps from the door to the counter and order the same strawberry milkshake. he'd spill on the third sip from his second booth by the left window, and never paid attention to the same laughter from the same groups of boys who noticed this action. everything went fine. he'd smile the same smile and give the same seventy five cent tip, waltzing out and feeling proud because seventy five back then was tipping high for teen's at a diner. one saturday, though. he was there at two. he'd never been there at two. he was staring at the third step from the door, at a dime. his change had fallen, and he wasn't quite sure what to do. the nowold man who was an atthetime youngster picked up the dime and handed it to him and patted him on the back. he didn't know what to say because he didn't understand why it was such a huge deal to be one step behind your usual schedule.

the man grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close and whispered, "kiss with your eyes closed."
he took his final three steps, and walked slower than usual down the same street. the nowold man never quite understood, he told us, until he got married.

everything in life becomes a pattern. and whether you have a mental disability or you're simply stuck in a rut, you're going to grow used to every person and action that happens to you regularly. there are a thousand things in life that are mundane, but love shouldn't be one of them. unless your kiss blinds you, cripples you, heightens every sense but the ones that could cause distraction... it's not a kiss, and it's not love. kiss with love; with your eyes closed.

it was the later of summer and the later of night and the later of 90 degrees, and i was sitting by a campfire, listening to what it takes to truly live.