Bed and Breakfast.
On the way out of town, past the woods, there's a little bed and breakfast in a Victorian house. I remember that it's covered in roses in the summertime, but it's not summertime now and the vines are just a tangle on the walls of the house. It's still sweet and pretty with its yellow paint and white trim, and the wraparound porch is covered in snow. It's a house meant for spring and summer, but it's winter and I'm here.
There are four thousand nine hundred and forty-two roses on the wallpaper in this room and I kissed Marlowe and I wanted to. I tipped my head back and I kissed him and I think he just let me, I don't think he wanted it.
Oh my God, I've never felt so stupid in my entire life. What a waste for just twenty seconds of what I wanted, and I don't even know why I did. I hardly know his name.
And I went upstairs and packed a suitcase and came here, because if Emi tapped on my window he would have seen it on my face that I'd done something all wrong and I wouldn't have been able to say the right things.
I don't know if I ever can.
Oh, God, oh, God, why didn't I know this two weeks ago when he needed it?
I'm going to lose him. He's never going to forgive me, and I'm going to lose him.
I love him and I'm going to lose him.
Four thousand nine hundred and forty-three. Fourty-four. Fourty-five.
I could count here forever if it meant I never have to tell him what I did and how little it ended up meaning.