Nostalgia

On a drive today I saw an old phone booth and I took out my phone to write “nothing is as shitty as you feel in a phone booth in the winter getting bad news,” because, even though I can’t remember the news, I remember the metal shelf where I spread out my quarters, dimes, nickels, and the wet scraps of paper and small muddy piles of ice on the metal floor and the sound of the door when I pulled it shut, one fold in an accordian, and how I wished there was a bench to sit on because standing and hearing the news, whatever it was, because I’ve forgotten, hearing the news was too hard to do standing up, but there was no sitting down, no comfort, there was just pulling the door open and leaving.

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