For our first date, I took Nancy starsurfing.
Arm in arm, we walked across the surface of the sun. It glowed underfoot, turning her cheeks to warm apples. I imagined our shadows covering North America.
But something isn’t right.
I tut, remove my brainjack. I consider adjusting her hair, or her smile. But that’s not really the problem.
The problem is that I never took her starsurfing. I took her to a cheap club, where the thumping bass meant I didn’t have to make conversation.
And no matter how detailed I make these memories, I know they’ll never be real.
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