I think of Rob, how if we met now we’d no longer find each other attractive, and then I remember he’s dead. He was dead already at our fifth college reunion. His friends said that they should have seen it coming. Freshman year, we spooned in his dorm bed and I’d never been so warm. He talked in his sleep, mostly U2 lyrics, and even when drunk, which was often, he was fatherly. He took down posters at the end of the semester and it was over just like that, just like classes were. When I think of him now I just want him to be in the world, in Chicago. I rip the bag he held over his face, punch 9-1-1 on a beige hotel phone. Rob sputters, coughs, swears. He will never forgive me for saving him, just like we all have.

Bio: Julie Gard