Seeking the Good of Others
The air wasn’t working too well, all the windows were open. I wiped down the bar counter. My wrist was bare, but I checked it for the time anyway. There was a clock across the room, but it inaccurately displayed a time past seven. Below that sat a handful of people reading the paper. Hardly anyone said a thing. It was warm, and the breeze contrived its own conversation.
I could see the creek through one of the windows, but I couldn’t hear it the way I normally could in the summer. I stared at it with disappointment, a half-polished glass languishing in my hands. 2:05pm, or so I assumed, and the sound of a few unfamiliar voices carried through the windows and across the bar. There were four of them, their bodies swinging through the door, shiny and confident. But they hesitated at the threshold. Awaiting directions, I assumed.
The man at the head of the group, tall with some sideways hair, stepped forward and led his three companions to the bar. This was Thomas. They sat. I remembered the glass in my hand.
“You know where they sell cigarettes here?” asked the taller woman, this was Juliette, and I passed one over from my apron pocket. She was almost as tall as Thomas, but neither seemed to mind. I imagined she had some vague art on her apartment walls that she didn’t care about.
I took their orders, then started pouring at the other end of the bar. They kept glancing at me. I adjusted my apron, reset the vinyl player onto something I thought they’d like, a Beatles album we’d overplayed but hadn’t replaced. I set down their drinks, and in the natural order, playing our parts, they asked me questions.
“Have you always lived here?” Thomas asked. Here was the turning point in the pattern, negotiating whether an interaction between bartender and patron would fulfill or forfeit the atmosphere.
I told Thomas and his friends that I had, that I’d spent a few years in New Jersey for a man, but that I came back and probably would never leave again. Said I liked knowing where everything was, who everyone was, which street went where, where my parents were.
“We’re here for the summer,” said the smaller woman. She had a camera, that was Aria. She looked at the dark-haired man at the end of the group when she said it.
“Well, for a month,” Thomas corrected.
I’ve met groups before. They come into town for a few days. Remark at the features, the strip of shops, the eroding fireplace in the restaurant. They would give an appropriate reaction upon learning that the restaurant used to be a brothel. I never miss the groups when they leave. But that this set was here for a month, I felt they must have known something I did not. There were things to do if you lived here. But to anyone else, it was a rest stop and a coffee on the way to the town north or the town south.
The last of the group, Dan, he didn’t say much, but kept looking and looking. He’d stare at me, stare down at his hands, take a sip of his drink, then stare some more. He wouldn’t speak directly to me, only to Aria, really. At one point he said to her, “What beer is that?” And Aria told him it was a lager, and Dan said, “Sounds good to me.” And Aria told me, “Two more of those, please.”
I polished a few more glasses and switched the record player to the other Beatles album we had on hand that didn’t get played as much. Handed Juliette another cigarette at some point. I thought they must have been traveling as a group for the past few days as they weren’t too interested in each other. They kept talking to me, even when I retreated to the other side of the bar. They told me about their rental cabin, said it was the blue one on that road near the woods, and in trying to make conversation, I disclosed I lived a two-minute bike ride down from them. They were quick to invite me over, in the polite way you make conversation. I told them no, in the polite way you tell strangers no. And really, I had this whole routine going. I was good on my own. Go home, cook dinner, drive some of it down to my parents. Read out on the porch over the creek. I was lucky to have a porch over the creek, I think that helped the most. Work on some writing, take a long shower, put on my socks, sleep. I’d call my sister sometimes. No changes were needed. I played my part.
***
They came back the next afternoon. I was behind the bar again. I started up the record player, putting on a slower country album that I found in my childhood bedroom back at my parent’s house the previous night. On each visit, I’d glance into my old bedroom, the books all still in the same places, but a desk where my bed used to be. Over dinner, I told my parents about the strangers in town, and they asked their questions about the strangers in town. I said what I knew: that there were four of them, that a pair of them could be siblings, though I wasn’t sure, that they were staying in the blue rental cabin, which my parents were shocked to hear had finally been rented out. (“Chris still won’t break even on that, but goddamn, if that isn’t great for him.”) I said they might know each other better than four people ever knew one another.
I busied myself with the coffee machine after pouring the beers Thomas ordered for the group. They were talking about themselves to each other.
Then Juliette addressed me, saying, “We biked over to your house last night.”
“I didn’t hear anyone,” I said.
Thomas said, “Well we went about two minutes one way and two the other. You never said which way you were from us.”
I continued polishing glasses. They went back to talking about themselves. They were dissecting someone they knew from back home, someone Aria was interested in. Though she kept deflecting the conversation with small sounds no one else seemed to hear but Dan – a “but,” a “well,” a “yeah.” Thomas and Juliette indulged themselves in the conversation’s offerings.
At one of the lulls in speech I said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing the cabin, if the offer still stands.” Aria took a sip of her drink. I held a glass in my hands that I’d polished three times already. The record player had stopped a few minutes back. And it was true, I heard Chris had done it up nicely, and I wanted to see what that meant.
Thomas said, “The offer still stands.”
I closed the bar early and biked over to their rental. I had asked them for the address even though I knew the one. I walked up the wooden stairs, wildflowers growing between each slat. At the top, I didn’t know if I should knock, but then the train rushed by, enveloping the entire wood in its movement, so I couldn’t knock; they wouldn’t hear it. I stood fastidiously outside, surrounded by the train, only the pinewood door between their eyes and mine. The train horn laid off. I knocked.
“Hey, come in,” Juliette opened the door and led me over to the couches facing the fireplace. There wasn’t a television. A few windows hung open. You could hear the crickets. Dan folded and refolded a hand of cards.
We got into a game, and then another, and eventually we unknowingly paused a game when our talking distracted us from anything else. I took lazy notice of Juliette’s habit of refilling drinks before you could finish them. I couldn’t keep track of how much I had consumed. I didn’t care.
“But how do you all know each other?” I asked at one point. I thought they would’ve grown up together. I thought that was how it always was, that they spent incredible amounts of time together. When they tried to explain themselves and their closeness, I couldn’t keep pace with the details. Someone worked at a restaurant and someone invited someone to a dinner party and someone worked at an elementary school that someone volunteered at and someone lived down the street and someone and someone. Their shared familiarity was built gradually. A meal here, an apartment there, a borrowed car somewhere else. That was all. I surveyed each of their faces, searching for meaning past what they were speaking. As I turned my head to gauge a reaction, I felt my eyeline take its time in catching up with the direction I was looking. Juliette topped off my glass of wine.
Each of their self-proclaimed histories spreading out on the table before us, each of their eyebrows following an earnest pattern, their luminous faces tracking one another in agreement with the words spoken. This was how they were. They knew one another. I looked for falsehoods but couldn’t detect any. I wanted something to be wrong. I wanted them to prove to me that something was wrong. We picked up our cards, following the silent pattern of resuming.
Thomas asked me, “How’d your parents end up here?”
I told them they were born here, that our town almost housed the region’s train station. “We were passed over at the last minute, a year or so before I was born. You probably
took the train into the town south of here and got a taxi up, right?”
Thomas nodded.
“That was supposed to be here. That’s the whole reason there’s a restaurant, and a shop, and those few streetlights. They were all made for something that wasn’t ever coming.” It was a practiced line.
Aria said, “It’s a nice place, still.”
Juliette said, “So why stay? Why don’t you all abandon it?”
“You’re all here, aren’t you?” I was beginning to think they had come into town just for me.
Juliette said, “Before you were even born, this town set the trajectory of your life. Or that missed train station did. You know what I’m getting at.” There wasn’t a moment she didn’t take seriously, it seemed.
“That’s a bit, oh I don’t know, let’s say, well I don’t know where you were born-” I began.
“—Boston.”
“Boston, alright, but Boston didn’t force you into anything, you’re not living there now, look how far away you are from it!”
“I chose to leave. You could leave. You don’t want to?”
“I did the one time.”
Juliette took a drag of her cigarette. I wondered about Chris’s policy on smoking inside.
I went on, “Even if the station had ended up here, my parents wouldn’t have left, they would’ve stayed, certainly, but they would have had better jobs. I don’t think that would have changed much for me.”
“Your sister left, right?” Juliette asked.
Thomas topped off his drink. Juliette took the bottle from him and topped off mine.
I said, “Why don’t we switch? You stay here, you tend to the bar, you can work with Joan in the bad air-conditioning each summer and fall, and then in the winter and spring you’ll do less hours at the restaurant, but more time in the town south filling a part-time role at the library and another at the school’s aftercare. I’ll go to your apartment. I’ll water your plants. I’ll walk down the street at night and tell everyone I’m Juliette, and I’ll wash your dishes and do your laundry and work hard at your job to make very detailed notes on the books you’re editing. I’ll even be kind to the authors. And each evening I’ll walk down the street to see Thomas, Aria, and Dan. Is that alright, Dan? And each evening, would you please bring my parents half of what you cook for dinner? Their spices are out of date.”
Juliette passed me a cigarette. “I’m only good at making pasta,” she said.
I thought the way they knew each other, they knew those things about me, too. I walked my bike home.
***
Things went simply at first. I’d meet them at their rental cabin, have a few drinks, smoke a cigarette or two. I particularly liked smoking with Juliette, who I coaxed to the porch once I saw the no smoking rules in the rental’s handbook. In the air of those damp evenings, she told me stories about the city, how she took trains and saw men with guns, how she knew where the dimly lit bars were but claimed she never visited them herself. Juliette had a story for every cigarette, sometimes new ones, sometimes repeats. I didn’t mind the repeats. The details shifted slightly. Felt like a game, picking out the alterations.
In return, I told Juliette stories of the city as I knew it. I hadn’t visited in years. There was a wedding there once, but that was when my family still knew people.
I said, “There aren’t any other couples left to get married. Not in the city, especially.”
“What about you?” Juliette asked. I tried not to think about it.
“I’ll meet someone somewhere. I can’t really imagine it being here.”
“But won’t it have to be?”
“I could go to the town over, or someone could come in. Like your group. I could find another group like yours next week, and in it could be the person I’d like to spend incredible amounts of time with.”
“It’s none of us?”
Aria took photos as we talked. She told me not to move my hands, she liked how they were placed on the patio railing. During card games, Aria took photos of the cards, particularly when Dan shuffled them. She didn’t seem to care about our faces, just the cards. Or the drinks on the table, or our fingers against the condensation on the glasses.
After a week or so like this, we found it more difficult to end the night until you could almost call it morning. I began leaving the bar earlier and earlier. They had something for me, and I had something for them: they wanted to know everything about me, which was fine – I enjoyed the questions. I knew my answers didn’t matter. I could have said anything, but I told the truth.
It felt strange to be hosted in the place I’d lived my whole life. It felt like I’d been invited into something, at once performing for them and in the audience.
Dan never asked much. Still never spoke to me directly. After a few nights I tried asking about his family, some simple topics, and he trailed off in his speech and found his way to the kitchen where he stayed put for a while. Juliette pulled me outside for a cigarette. The trees felt darker than normal, and I wondered if she noticed, too.
“You look like Dan’s ex-girlfriend. Spitting image, actually, it’s a bit haunting. We were all good friends with her until Dan cheated on her and fucked it all up.”
I took a drag of Juliette’s cigarette. Regarded the trees.
“Isn’t that weird for him?”
“He’s fine. He doesn’t speak much anyway. I promise you’re not missing some wildly interesting personality just because you look the way you look.”
“I see.”
“He’s also told me he finds you pretty interesting.”
“I see.”
“So I think he feels weird about that. Thomas finds you interesting, too. Which I think makes Aria mad because she finds Thomas pretty interesting, which is obviously just a cover for her need for Dan and Dan’s need for her. And, since I’m giving out information, I used to find Dan’s girlfriend interesting.”
“And you’re okay with me being here?”
“You shouldn’t care so much if we’re okay.”
At the end of the night, we had this routine, almost a ritual. Dan would put away his cards, go upstairs, get ready for bed. That was part one. Then Aria would heat a pot of tea, pour everyone a cup, and we’d drink a few sips until Thomas and Juliette shared a look that could be summarized with a single, “Well?” The final step was the train – its three-thirty in the morning sounding cut the night cleanly. We listened deliberately, using its meaning in personalized ways. I always left during the loud silence, biking home, the train’s wheels against the tracks still audible by the time I found myself alone in bed.
Almost two weeks in a row like this. I told my sister about it on the phone, and she asked if I was going to live in the city with them when they left. I thought it was an odd question to ask.
The shifts at the bar had been slow, and more frequently I found my mind wandering to these strangers that had taken me into their belonging pattern. I knew how they spent their days – but I contemplated how, just how exactly, they spent their days. When they hiked, did Aria walk closely with Dan? Would Thomas take a cigarette from Juliette’s lips and finish it off? Did Juliette hold Aria’s hand the way she did mine when she shared a particularly detailed story? I always hoped they would spend time just past the window of the bar, down near the creek, where I could observe them and have my questions answered.
I wondered if they spoke about me. They must have. I feel confident they did.
***
“But what about New Jersey?” asked Juliette.
“Paul?”
Thomas said, “Why is he named that?”
Aria said, “Why would you ask that?”
Dan shifted in his seat.
I asked, “What do you want out of the question?”
Thomas said, “I mean, is it a family name, is it a biblical name? It could add some context to whatever you’re going to tell us.”
Juliette said, “What’s in your name Thomas? It could help us figure out why you are the way you are.”
Thomas said, “Juliette, you’ve always reminded me of Paul, in the Bible.”
“Please don’t compare me to anyone in the Bible.”
“I think it was a family name. Maybe they were religious originally. I could see that.”
I told them I hadn’t understood as much about Paul as I’d imagined. We’d grown up together, until his parents moved across the train tracks to the town south for the better school. No one was against our friendship, and we felt lucky for that. That our parents would drive us to see each other, that our families got along, we felt so deserving of the love even when we didn’t understand the word. I told them we followed the pattern set for us, that we went to football games together, that we went to prom together.
“I can’t imagine you in a prom dress,” said Juliette.
“It was black, with pleats down the skirt and a set of gems around the waist,” I said.
“And this Paul, he wore a suit?” asked Thomas.
“He had to rent, but yeah, it was a suit.”
“He drove you?”
“He drove me.”
“And he slow-danced with you?”
“We snuck out before that song. But yeah, we did, out in the football field by the school, if you’ll believe that.” They were listening to the details. They wanted to know, and I wanted to tell them. I didn’t understand why, but I didn’t question it until later, when I’d find myself up too late, the train passing by.
“Then Paul got the job offer in New Jersey. We weren’t sure we’d go to college anyway, and it was a good job, working for a relative on a construction site, a nuclear plant where Paul could really move up. The relative was an uncle, a foreman, who promised Paul and Paul’s family that he help him. I’d work at a restaurant and keep things in order. We felt so lucky.”
Between these remembrances, the halls began widening, the doors opening, kaleidoscopic images appearing that had been neglected for quite some time. I saw things I didn’t say out loud. I might claim that I was relaying a chronological narrative, and these tangents appeared mind-wise when their point in my personal history had already passed.
On warm nights, and even some cooler fall nights, Paul and I would walk along the tracks separately, following them from our respective sides, until we met in the middle. We were young enough to talk about everything. We were young enough to walk that far because it meant something. We’d lie on the tracks, side by side, learning about each other with words and without words. I loved listening to him speak. He would overthink his vowels, spending too much time on an O or a U. It was there that he told me about the job offer under his foreman uncle. We’d stay on the tracks until the rumble came through, alerting us of what was to come. At the 3:30 AM train, we would walk back, separately, to our homes. The train’s lights guiding Paul to his, the dark end of the cars leading me to mine.
As I told them about the move to New Jersey, and how someone stole the mattress off the roof of our car during a stop in a national park. I was remembering Paul’s fingers on my cheek, damp with the summer night. I was remembering the night sky above us, with all its star offerings. I could hear his words running through the forest around us, circling trees and mingling with cicadas, until they finally made their way back to my ears. The promises he made to me, and the promises we made to ourselves. Though this I kept to myself.
Then I told them how Paul lived here again, too. In the town south. It was one of the seasons I was working at the school over there, and they had better groceries, so I was shopping for a few things, mostly produce, when I saw his sister near the bananas. She said Paul was too frustrated with something to join her inside, so he was waiting in the car. I wanted to ask her where she was parked. She told me he was back. That the job didn’t work out, and I couldn’t tell if he quit or was let go. She was using wording that was vague in the way when you can’t figure out what to share.
Thomas asked if I saw Paul that day. I didn’t. I haven’t. But I do know he is there, where the train stops.
“You left him before he left? He didn’t come back at the same time as you?” Juliette asked.
“You’re so concerned with my leaving and staying. Asking why I stay, when my sister left, asking why I left the place I did leave for, asking why I want to stay now.” I felt comfortable arguing with Juliette.
“You left it out of the story. How you got back here before him.”
“We’d been there for almost two and a half years. We had friends, and we played trivia at bars, and we had a grocery store with good prices, and I worked at a diner, always the morning shift since Paul had to get up early.”
I told them there was one night with Paul where I thought it was all going to make sense. We’d spent the day building a new bookshelf, and then we decided to find a drink somewhere. We wandered through a park, and we sat down at a bar. On the patio. It was nice enough outside for that. And he was complaining about something, saying he couldn’t do something because of something else, it doesn’t even matter what it was. But I was looking at him and thinking, I love him. Even while he was going on and on about something that was more or less one long complaint, I thought, if I love him right now, then this will be beautiful. And that night he got upset with me for not showering with him. It was a small shower, it wasn’t completely doable, even if I had wanted to, even if I had in the past. But I thought, I still love him. Even when he is complaining. Even when he is angry with me. Even when he is slamming his hand against the tile wall because I won’t get in the standing corner shower. I loved him, still. Though some of these things I did not say out loud.
I said to Thomas, Juliette, Aria, and Dan, “One afternoon, I sat alone in our bedroom before Paul got home from work. I had my feet on the wooden floor, and I let the things I knew catch up with the things in my body. When Paul got home, I looked and looked at him all that night, searching for something to prove me wrong. I wanted to be proven wrong. He held my hand while we watched a movie and drank beer. I didn’t belong there. I moved back about three weeks later.”
***
All morning I walked around like a cloud might if it had to find itself on the ground. I was late to my shift at the bar. Joan wasn’t too happy about it, but I still played the records and did the polishing and poured. I thought about the evening ahead of me. The group planned to make dinner together and then eat it over the part of the creek that ran behind the blue rental. It wasn’t my idea. I think it was Aria’s. It felt like a reasonable thing to do as a group.
By the time I arrived, there were garlic and onions sitting in some olive oil, Dan carefully watching the contents. Aria chopped tomatoes, and Juliette smoked out back. Thomas sat on the couch remarking at various things. The living room opened into the kitchen, so we could all see each other.
They asked what I did that day besides work, and I said I called my sister. I told them she was working on a new garden, and Juliette asked why she had to leave this town to go plant a garden, and couldn’t she do that here just as well?
“It’s different soil where she is,” I said.
“Do you visit her?” Thomas asked.
“She comes here for holidays and some long weekends. And it never feels like she wants to come much more than that.” I told them it didn’t matter how often she visited or what she did with her garden or her soil. I ended the conversation by heading into the kitchen to cook with Aria and Dan.
After dinner, we played cards over the creek, which we hadn’t done before, and I think we were all aware of the fact that we were following our pattern in a different part of the house. It made the air feel heightened. We talked, played cards some more. Talked some more. The stars spread out above us.
“I do think this could be a nice place to settle down,” said Thomas.
“You couldn’t do it,” said Juliette. “You think you could be happy? You need more than this, you need your restaurants, and your apartment, and the people. You don’t like going at it alone.”
“Could you do it, then?” he asked.
“It’d be easier to smoke. Just walk out the door instead of an elevator or holding my head out the window 15 stories up.”
“You’d get bored.”
“I’ve seen you go on about ten walks a day here to ‘clear your mind’ since you can’t sit still without some form of entertainment.”
“There aren’t enough people here to satisfy you.”
“Could say the same to you.”
“But you love this place. Tell us more. More than you already have, I mean. What does it feel like? I mean, what does it really feel like? How is it, being here? Really being here.” He spoke like he was on the precipice of discovery.
They all looked at me for my answer. I started to say something, but I didn’t quite feel like talking about it.
Thomas went on, “It’s a different humanity here. It’s a gentle societal collection, you’re all quite curated without even realizing it. You must love it. Do you even know if you love it?”
Then I said, “It’s not warm love. I don’t have warm love for it.”
“Then it’s an unconditional love. I could see that.”
“I don’t know if it is. I don’t think it is. It’s not warm and it’s not kind, but it’s there. I don’t always understand, but it takes care of me enough.” There was a pause. The creek ran by.
Juliette said, “You told us last night you ended up back here after almost three years in New Jersey.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You said ‘I didn’t belong there.’” I looked at Juliette so as to prompt her to go on.
She said, “I thought you meant Paul. Did you mean Paul? Did you mean you didn’t belong there, in the relationship with him?” I looked at Juliette’s face. She wanted to know the answer.
Juliette continued, “You didn’t mean New Jersey. You must have meant Paul. Do you still love Paul?”
“No.”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t. I followed him to a place I didn’t belong. And I lost him to it. Even though he’s back here, I lost him to life over there, and I saw him leave me behind week after week, and I knew he’d never come back. Not in the way I did, I mean.”
“So you meant New Jersey?”
“I meant New Jersey.”
“So you must still love Paul.”
Thomas chimed in, “Long distance is hard.”
I said, “I live here. I belong here.”
Juliette said, “It’s holding you together.”
I said it was.
Juliette said, “It’s not a love you want.”
I said I didn’t choose it.
Thomas said, “It’s just one big table. All set with plates and forks and everything. So we come sit at it and see what’s laid out. And we take what’s there, and we don’t make any choices.”
I told Thomas I didn’t think he understood a word of what he was saying.
Thomas stopped speaking, Juliette didn’t add anything, and the wood of the deck moved all around us in the wind. Then the wind transformed into a familiar rattle, shaking the deck and the house from top to bottom until the train horn sounded. Thomas turned his head toward the train whistle, and stood, heading straight for the door. He pulled on his shoes and told us we all had to go to the train. Somehow, it made sense.
Thomas led us through the forest, all of us running, Juliette smoking and running, until the golden light of the train broke through the woods, glistening on our faces, shining between the ground and our feet. We watched the first car break the air in front of us. We stood, watching it pass. It felt like hours, each car screaming past us.
Juliette put her arm around me. Thomas held my hand. Dan lingered in the back, Aria sat in some leaves.
The last car disappeared, cracking the light in half, leaving us in a sudden darkness that felt like those final moments after a humid summer sunset. The tracks empty, the loose air clinging to our skin, we waited for an unspoken cue. The night was no longer ours. We no longer belonged to ourselves.
One by one, we walked onto the tracks and laid down, the hard wood and railway ties digging into our spines, the stars and waving trees above. Cicadas drowned into the night, and we thought we could see the curvature of the sky. An hour could have passed. And somewhere there was Paul.
I said into the silence, “Why did you all come here?”
Long before the lights appeared, a familiar rumble vibrated under our backs. Though we knew what was coming, we took our time standing up, moving away from the tracks. I stood last, and I stayed standing, the rest of them trackside. None of us said a word. They stared right into my eyes, or at them, I couldn’t tell, as the train grew closer and closer. A red horn sounded, and again, no one told me to move. It felt like we all knew something, like we all had the same body, and we were all there, on the tracks, together as one. The horn blew, the stars stayed in the sky, and I jumped. I rolled onto Juliette’s feet. We all walked back in silence, save for Juliette’s lighter clicking on and off. Walking the dark end of the train’s shadow.
The last time I looked into Paul’s eyes, he was dropping me off at the airport. We hadn’t discussed how I would get to the airport, it seemed natural that he would drive me. It was dark while he drove. I had an early flight. We barely spoke, but in the kind way the last hour of nighttime provides. We were best in silence, anyway. It was the proper final hour.
When I left his car, when he handed me my bags, I felt each layer of him cascading over my body, sinking me deeper into the ground with every addition. I hadn’t shed anything by leaving. I only gained Paul.
The morning after the train, I awoke in my bed, the same summer dust coming through the window. I had no marks of remembrance, nothing to show for the prior evening. I went back to the rental cabin that evening, but the air had shifted. No one lit a fire in the fireplace, there weren’t any drinks. Just a quiet card game. No one mentioned the train, even when it sounded at its regular intervals.
At the end of the evening, Dan ascended the stairs quickly, and Aria followed. She didn’t make tea.
Juliette and Thomas shared a look, and Juliette told me, “We’re headed out of town tomorrow. A few things came up.”
I said, “Couldn’t you all come back? After you’ve handled it all. There’re still a few weeks left of summer.”
Thomas said, “We’ve got to get back to things. We can’t just drink and play cards every night.”
I said, “Can’t you?”
The train cut me off. I biked home, thinking, where did they all go, if not here? Where would they all go, if not here?
Caitlin Cooper is a writer and photographer originally from Atlanta, GA. She currently resides in Los Angeles, where she works for a film producer.
16 April 2024
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