When it’s the first time, you know it. The first day of school. The first kiss. The first time you see Manhattan from the air. The last time you never know, at least not usually.

I mean, the morning Kurt tried to assassinate the President, and I had breakfast in the kitchen with Dr. Grey, neither of us knew it was the last time. For me, the last time I would eat breakfast in that kitchen, for her the last time she would eat breakfast anywhere. It was just a regular day before a regular field trip.

But the first time, you always know. You have time to anticipate. You wonder what will happen. And you remember it. I mean, everybody remembers their first kiss, right? The first time someone they loved died. The first time they had sex. The first time they drove a car. You take mental pictures and put them away. You never forget what it’s like the first time behind the wheel, with your foot really lightly on the gas like you’re afraid the car is going to take off with you. Or the first time someone wants you.

But the last time just kind of sneaks up on you.

Unless something happens (and it does, sometimes) there will be a last time. He’s a lot older than me. I know there will be a last time that he kisses me and I can taste that warm, salty mouth on mine, a last time he lifts my hair off the back of my neck and runs it through his fingers like it’s silk. The last time he says “Pyro,” in that tone of voice that makes my toes curl up. I don’t know if it will be because it’s time, and you get the chance to say goodbye and good luck and let’s be friends, or not. Nobody ever does. But I know sometime it will be the last time.

The other night we were getting the boat in, and the weather was really bad. It was dark and it was raining. We were down on the dock and he was pulling the boat up on the slip so the waves wouldn’t bang it around. There was this really big wave while he was concentrating, and it knocked him down on the concrete ramp. He got a mouthful of saltwater, and that cold water can just slap the shit out of you, even if you’re not 65 and falling on concrete. I grabbed his arm, and everything was ok. He said he was fine, but later I saw the bruise on his hip, purple and yellow.

So, you know, I kind of took it easy. Got him more coffee when I got mine, instead of letting him get his own. You know. Nothing that would clue him in that I was thinking anything.

Because I know, someday, if I’m as old as him, he will have been dead for a long time. And I’ll wish I could get him some coffee and talk, and know that’s impossible. So I take pictures in my head, the way he smiles like he regrets it when he’s happy, the way his hands fit around the stem of a wineglass he never fills more than half way. So I’ll remember.