September 28, 2015
He likes that black peacoat, and I like him in it. When it's foggy out, my fondest hope is that I'll run into him at the coffee shop. He'd have the peacoat on, he'd see me and wave, then run his right hand through his hair, then shove it in his pocket as if that action could save him from some sort of threat. He'd ask if he could walk me to work and I'd just be smiling the whole time, him in that peacoat with his hand warm in his pocket, the other hand clutching his coffee. Good times.