the story he always told.

and every one of the nights that i couldn't sleep, i would turn my face to him and say, "tell me a story."

"i don't know any stories."

"make one up."

and he would lay there for a moment and think, trying too hard to think quickly.

"i can't think of one. i'm sorry, bean, i don't know any stories."

"tell me the one i've already heard."

"that one again?"

"yes, the one about the day we met."

"i was sitting in the back corner seat, next to angie, waiting for class to start, and in walked this gorgeous redhead who i knew i had seen many times before ..."