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January 17, 2010
There was a guy sitting 4 stools down from Steve and I at the Wagon Wheel, drinking a pitcher alone. He was around my age. He had thick hands and a manly face and I occasionally turned my head to the left to gaze at him. My friend was talking about something, but I had to ask him to repeat himself, too busy fantasizing about having a boyfriend of my own that liked to read. I wanted a chest I could lay my head upon as I read. I wanted arms that hold me tight. I needed to wake up.