I found a paper napkin at the bottom of my book shelf. The writing, in black, quivered over the damasked paper. It threatened to fade, to vanish completely one day. I peered at it, until the words stopped dancing and it said "Cafe Churchill. November 21, 2009." and it had our signatures underneath. 

It was like chancing upon a Polaroid, a mental one in this case. Maybe it's the one where we are all trying to squeeze into the frame, our heads sticking together, our smiles connecting to make one big smile. Maybe it's the one where we're making silly faces, but it won't be, because you don't make silly faces. 

I thought about the day and the years that followed. I thought about letters and silly scraps of messages, movie ticket stubs and bills from dinners that we would never had been able to pay back in college. Birthdays and beer towers and swollen eyes and dramatic stories. 

It's very hard for me to write about happy things. Maybe if one of you had left the city never to return or perhaps broken my heart in a terribly cruel fashion, this piece would have had more artistic merit than it does right now. But we're here and perhaps in the future I'll write something more poignant, but for now I will revel in the comfort of having known you for as long as I do and for everything that it was thus far.