Jack says, “What does it mean by wedding band? Is that another genre? Like grunge, or hardcore.”

“Sure,” I tell him, although I’m hoping to convince a different sort of band, a non-genre one to play at our wedding, so it’s something I actually like. But traditions whir up like guilt after action, like guilt after inaction because procrastination is a disease that nobody talks about. There’s shame surrounding a lot of stuff and that’s barely the start of it.

“So,” Jack says, “We should be checking out lists, Top 25s, the internet.” I nod, wondering when compromise turns into taking, when values lose their baseline. The walk home from a friend’s party is hard, one half of my body heavier than 10am, my name layering his, our vowels buckling, syllables disappearing like the kids in the photo in Back To The Future.

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