I was in the honeymoon suite at the Canmore Hotel. I was drunk, I was dying of lonliness and looking like hell (it was seventeen years to the day since you'd turned me down). The locals were brawling, and the bar was emptying out. Did you get all those letters I sent? Are you thinking of me? Or did you hide them in drawers? Under cushions? In pockets? Up sleeves? The heater is broken, but at least I've got a TV.
Imagine we'd run away together and we'd made it this far. We'd get married for ninety-two dollars in Riverside Park. The three sisters would cry, and tie cans to the back of my car. And I'd be in the honeymoon suite and not back in the bar.
The next morning the weather was perfect, so I went for a drive through the mountains and past little homes with little kids playing outside. A wife, and a husband - a life that should have been mine.
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