Do you remember recording? That Sunday, it was so fucking hot, but we recorded anyway, tapping the microphone, check, check. So I bought ice cream like you wanted. Hauled ice cream up the hot third floor and dug two spoons in it. We ate from the same cup, and the sun—we wanted it in the room, through Sunday parted windows, we wanted to hold our white hands up to it. We recorded whatever—rubbing sweat on the microphones, saying months later that it wasn’t so bad. We were off that day. It was difficult music. And your hands on the guitar was like something I’ve always tried to re-create but can’t. I was singing and you picked. You squinted a little because I can’t sing. My voice breaks. Even during sex with someone else, I still hear the way I sang, how you hated it, how we cut a home-made record and shut the windows so the sound of sirens wouldn’t botch it. We made that record because it was April. Or May. Because we’d been living there for a year and all the equipment had been set up, cables connected; and we checked everything, adjusted the levels. You missed notes because you were tired, stumbling in like that, at four in the morning. I was tired too. Because sleep didn’t save me from waiting up. Sleep still doesn’t save me from the music of your feet coming up the steps at four in the morning. I memorized the number of steps and what your voice sounds like when you think I’m sleeping. It’s so sad that it was so hot in that apartment, that the air conditioner was too loud, so we shut it off. I sang badly and you stumbled on the cables. The cat ruined everything with her infernal meowing. So you didn’t send me a copy of it. I guess I can understand that. I think you’re right, but mostly wrong to not send it, and honestly I don’t even think it was a Sunday—it could have been February. There might have been snow.