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I remember the night I met your mom. It was nothing special, but she liked me. Maybe that was an indication of things to come. I wasn’t nervous, it didn’t matter. I convinced myself it was because we would make it no matter what she said. Looking back, it still didn’t matter, just not because of our teenage rebellion. I picked apples with you and I work there now. I don’t think of you when I’m there. I tried dipping fries in a milkshake with you and I do it all the time now. I don’t think of you when I order them. We sat in class and we didn’t speak and we made everyone around us uncomfortable until I finally moved my chair. I left my desk behind, and I think you hated that. I sat between my friends and I never looked at you and I propped my work up on my leg. A year later, we sat in a different class and we still didn’t speak but this time I stayed where I was. I sat between my friends and my work sat on my desk and sometimes you looked at me and you still hated it. I made you an apple pie and you made me an apple crumble and we fought over which was better. You thought my pie was too dry and I thought your crumble was too soggy. I changed the recipe, and I think you’d still hate it.