We stand together near the bus station, inhaling the smell of cow shit, watching miniature dust devils swirling around in the street like tiny tornados. Two hippie imposters, my boyfriend Don and I, wait for a Greyhound bus to take us from Stockton to Pasadena, California.

“Shorter,” I said. “Take it all.”

January seemed a fitting moment for fresh starts. It wasn't born from some halfhearted resolution or unfounded faith in the promise of a new year. It wasn't shoved in with a promise to swear off chocolate or set the alarm an hour early every Monday through Friday.

I don’t miss him, but what I do miss is sitting on the cold sand of the beach in October, when the wind shivered my young bones, and I would huddle against him, burying my face into his cigarette, scented pullover. He would cross his arms for his own warmth, with a Marlboro Gold hanging from his blue lips. He never wore a jacket and even after all this time, this is the only way I can remember him.