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December 1, 2002
Dinner was Ethiopian cuisine at a restaurant off of Fairfax, where the lights are always quiet. We spoke of shitty soundtracks and a ghost story, while subtle percussions tapped a rhythm through speakers hung beneath shadows. I could almost see the rhythm hovering over our table like an apparition of some place that I’ve been before; some inconsistent remembrance of a moment that’s supposed to last forever. Every so often, a candle spit smoke upwards. Our hostess was not Iris, who’d said grace and paid the bill, but that apparition – that rhythm – who teased us sweetly with promises never made.