It's cold and overcast but the sun is trying its hardest to peek through the layers of grey clouds.
In other words, it's the perfect day to listen to The Smiths (or Morrissey).
When I was in high school one of my friends, Joe, used to pick me up for school. He was a couple years older than me and he had this rusty dirty white car full of mix tapes and sweaty baseball caps and empty packs of cigarettes. The only thing in his car that worked the way it was supposed to was the tape deck.
Every morning he would slow down just enough for me to hop in and he'd crack me a Miller High Life and pop in "The Queen is Dead" by The Smiths. We'd cruise around town tossing our empties out the window and feeling all melancholy. The first time I heard Morrissey's voice I was hooked. He was sad but angry. He was happy yet sarcastic. He was sexual but playing hard to get. We drove around until the last chords of side B had finished.
It seemed like every day that year it was grey and sunny.
Joe & I never kept in touch and I have no idea where he is now. I have no idea if he's alive or dead, married or divorced, gay or straight. And to be perfectly honest, I have no idea how we met. I think we met because we were dating the same girl. Maybe that happened later. Who knows.
But to this day I always have a spare copy of "The Queen is Dead" lying around.
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