It would be 12:03 am and she would be standing on a table hanging papers to let them air dry and I would be gazing at the moon.
She might turn to me any given evening and ask me what I was looking at, and tell me I was stupid, and tell me how behind we were.
We were Midland's only underground news outlet after all.
A lot of people referred to Midland as Endsville, you know, like where all the old people go to live? It looked like the 20's a lot there because I guess that was what old people grew up dreaming of owning. Now it just looks old. Wonder what my old people neighborhood will look like...
We were 10 and we were Endsville's Midnight Press. Everything important was well documented and printed at the maximum capacity one typewriter could manage. Every important event, Lucy Bartowe losing her tooth, Mark Hoppkins finding a blue frog, Kenny Smith getting a trampoline, and of course the horrible rumors that there would be an end to the lemonade stand on 5th and West that gave free lemonade to kids on Saturday afternoons, was covered in detail. We had it all.
Sometimes I wondered why we did it. Sometimes I felt like we were making more history than we were writing about. Sometimes it was worth it just to watch how the moon shines on someones hair, you know, that little white aura that glows on them?
There was a plastic ring involved but I think I was embarassed and I don't think she understood what I was stammering and I don't think I ever tried to explain it. I can still really only write to her. Endlessly.
I could only ever say what I meant from behind a wall of paper, under a shield of ink. I still write letters. I make myself.
Me, mister lack of self control, dedication, or general interest. I make myself write letters to her at 12 am every day.
Soon enough we'll both go back to that neighborhood I'm sure.
We'll be the old people all the kids ignore. I still don't understand death but I'm ninety percent sure it comes wether you understand it or not. I'm wholly sure love happens wether you understand it or not. We spent every night writing that paper, and didn't have a single reader. It was a secret newspaper, just for us, just so we could never forget all the important things when we become old and our eyes glaze over with dull content and our lips dry and we feel fine not knowing anymore.
I will always remember everything about those nights. Every stich in her jeans. Every slight little look. The one time she kissed me. The one plastic ring.
She's asleep in the next room now, there's a real ring there on her finger. We're growing old as fast as we have to but up as slow as we can. The kids are in bed and I'm writing another solo editorial, as the one remaining member of Endsville's Midnight Press.
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