Caitlin doesn't know what she wants. She has long hair and a deep sense of vague injustice, a love for coffee and quiet songs. I love her, but we don't say love much in case it gets cheap. Caitlin rides trains and sits in cafes she walks on deep, wide paths in the hushed woods by her house, listening to quiet songs. She wakes up early and takes ballet in the city, a class that's so good, you forget to notice the room has no windows. We have walked on chilly mornings along the sand Her father has shoveled my car out of the snow. We have caught salt in our boots, and hated tourists. We have all these things together.