32 The Meadow about those old days of love, you drank the bar dry. So did I, but I hate it still. Though I understand your drinking because I’d drink as much as you if I drove a forklift, if I lived, still, in this dead-end. And I hate how tonight, after the bar, we return to my cabin, our favorite place in the world, the slow river outside, and you turn to me, swaying, and ask, Do you want to have a child with me? I hate how surprised I am. I hate how I have no idea that this was where tonight was going. I hate how badly I want to say, Yes. So badly, Yes. Yes. I hate how I remain silent. I hate how I say nothing. I hate how soon you drive away.
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