I walked out into the ocean and dove under a wave and for a flash I remembered what it felt like to be young and good the summer before that all changed. But I won't do that again for a while. I don't want to ruin it. Like when I sprayed through what was left in that bottle of perfume so I could keep remembering what it felt like to be bumming around Europe. And when I couldn't find a replacement bottle, I knew I'd lost something, forever. Because I can't call you. You're married with two kids now. How would I explain that I need to know where you got that perfume so I can get more of it. Not because of you. Not really. But because the scent you left on my pillow somehow takes me back to that tiny apartment in Marseille quicker than anything else I've tried.