"I was trying to sound all smart in front of you by speaking in quotes," another November wet breeze washes over our faces. My hands are tucked in my pocket because I remember how cold it could be here.
But has it always been this cold? I'm not sure. I have always been here for as long as I can remember, the changes in the town I was born and grew up in seem pretty impossible for me to pick up.
What changed?
What didn't?
Or
Who changed?
Who didn't?
"You always do," the dry leaf under your sole cracks as you step on it. "You always look smart to me."
"Always?" The word suddenly seemed a bit of a blur for me to make out the real meaning of it.
Always. How do you measure something up to the extent of that word? Does it have to be there forever? Presents there with you all the time? Does everything have to stay the same?
Because I'm not sure that the both of us are always---
