This happened in March of 1998. At the time I was a bit over six feet and a lean 175 of long muscle from my work outside and generally being active. My hair was light brown and cut short and I, like all 18-year-old men of the era had a modest and regrettable goatee. My eyes are a gray-blue.
My girlfriend at the time was named Mina and is only peripherally a part of what you are about to read. We were young and petty and abusive towards each other and luckily one of us had the sense to break it off after four years. I hope her life is better.
This isn’t about her. This is about Ella. This is about a very specific kind of closure. One I took liberties to enjoy. It isn’t all positive. It is all true notwithstanding the names which are changed but retain their symmetry for whatever little that is worth.
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I awoke just as the soft knocking on the back door ended. My room was pretty dark. Bruised purple and peach shapes still stood out from the reflected sodium streetlamps. I rolled my head off the side of the mattress and groggily stretched. The black and white tiles came into focus inches from where my bed lay upon the bare floor.