Dear Rory,
I'm sorry about what I said.
I'm leaving for LA in two days.
Can we talk before then, please?
We can just drive around as usual.
I don't know how to do this if
you're upset with me.
Call me please. I'm staying at my
parents' house...
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Dear Rory, 110 shows lated, I'm finally home. 110 shows. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it! It's really fucking crazy. Are you still in New York? I kinda hope you're not. I hope you're out there somewhere like you always said you wanted to be. Love, Taylor
———
The next morning, right after my breakfast which consisted only of a cup of coffee, I play Taylor's album the second it's out while I go around my hotel room, getting ready for the day. I have an hour before meeting the rest of the crew in the lobby which is more than enough time to play the songs as I shower quickly and get dressed.
The beat of the first song is actually perfect to get the day started. I find myself nodding my head along as I try to register the lyrics. It's a little hard for me to do so given that I usually like to listen to the general way a song sounds to decide if I like it or if I need to listen to it again to give it a fair shot, or if I simply dislike it. I make the effort though.
As I'm rubbing some shampoo into my scalp, the second song starts. It's quite mellow and a little slower than the first, but it's fun.
"How'd we end up on the floor anyway?" You say. Your roommate's cheap-ass screw top rosé That's how
My hands pause up in my hair and I turn the water off for a second as I try to hear the rest of the words, a small frown pulling my lips down.
And I lost you, the one I was dancing with in New York, No shoes, looked up at the sky and it was maroon The burgundy on my T-shirt when you splashed your wine into me And how the blood rushed into my cheeks, so scarlet, it was maroon The mark you saw on my collarbone, the rust that grew between telephones The lips I used to call home, so scarlet, it was maroon
I slowly reach for the faucet to start the shower again as the shampoo started streaming down my face but when I shut my eyes tightly to avoid getting soap in them, all I can see is different shades of red.
The sky turning a dark shade of red as the sun started to rise. An empty bottle of rosé on the carpeted floor of my dorm room back in college. The bottle of red wine, freshly opened on the desk. A white t-shirt with a splash of burgundy all over the front. Scarlet lips, stained from the wine. Cheeks with a blush that seemed permanent at the time. Bruises on the soft skin of her neck, turning darker with every passing minute, turning red with hints of purple. Turning maroon.
I can almost hear the Radiohead vinyl playing on my old record label. I can hear her laughing as she fell into me while we attempted to dance.
And I wake with your memory over me, That's a real fucking legacy
