We first met in a coffee shop, 6 years ago, around the middle of august. It was painted red, filled with cheerful chintz. There were cheap wooden tables and uncomfortable chairs. The floor was decorated in mismatched tiles, and dusty in the corners. The menu was on a chalkboard, printed in faux handwriting. They used the most inauthentic Italian names for their drinks. The lights were diffuse, and wall-mounted. I remember slyly catching your gaze, and the sudden tension that gathered when our eyes locked. I remember your hand on my knee under the table. I remember kissing you when the waitress wasn’t watching. I’m going to burn the place down. I want to watch it go up in flames. I’m going to raze every last fucking place that reminds me of you to the ground and till the soil with salt. I won’t stop until each memory of us together is cleansed in fire. I’m sick of living with your ghost. I’m sick of this fucking town.