I think of you and the milk soup you made for me on the stove-top in your basement suite; you threw rocks up at my City Park window like I was Juliet. Years later, I discovered that my apartment was closed up; it was against Saskatoon fire codes to live at the top of a 100-year old house, with only one window that wouldn't open. I think about your long-toothed smile and shiny gums; the way you danced at Oktoberfest in Humboldt, like Goofy. I remember your foreign car - Was it an Audi? I had never seen one before but you filled the trunk with speakers, boomers and bass from a shop on 33rd Street; I brought you fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, warm, buttery spots staining the brown paper bag. Sitting in your Audi outside of Riley's Night Club, you begged me not to disassociate myself from the truth - that's what it was called - the cult of Jehovah's Witnesses we both belonged to. Your dad and only brother both not allowed at family occasions. What did they do? I asked Ask them yourself, you said. Besides, who would talk to them anyway? They were disfellowshipped, ex-communicated apostates. You told me how much you cared and I remember how you watched stone-faced from the driver's seat a rearview perspective of his hands, his long fingers up my respectable grey skirt inside me; drunk on Cherry Whiskey and Southern Comfort, head lolling in the backseat on our way to someone's wedding in Regina. I missed the whole thing - the wedding that is - threw up in the girls' bathroom no one to hold my hair back; stumbled to pass out, begged you to stay with me. I think of how you disappeared right before I did. I think of you.