By Joe Stallone
We were slow dancing to the Eagles in my kitchen. The only light came twinkling from the tealight candles that I had haphazardly scattered throughout the room.
I was sauced on gin, swaying to the tempo and stumbling on your feet. You laughed at my rhythmic ineptitude, told me I was silly when I was drunk.
Raising my voice to falsetto, I sang to you: Take it to the limit.
Glenn Frey turned in his grave.
What they don’t teach you in secondary school is that when someone breaks up with you, it’s the good memories that sting the most.