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And it was 1985 and she was sitting at the kitchen table, holding Mom’s hand as she tearfully spoke to the police officers. “A red t-shirt and jeans,” she’d been saying. “With, with a checked shirt over it – he, uh, always wore Nikes – he didn’t take his keys. He didn’t even take his jacket.”
He was still wearing the Nikes – the same beat-up pair of Nikes.
She said, “You aren’t any older.”
Marty didn’t meet her eyes. “No.”
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Bookmark Notes:
This is crushing and glorious
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Bookmark Notes:
ouchies but beautiful ones
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