Through the window of a Seattle-bound train, the western Oregon light cracks gold against the worn leather seats. I’m heading north to the rainsoaked sound, to briny underdocks, salt-slick oilrigs, the reassuring lungdeep smell of lowtide. In these six hours suspended, hung from the tracks, I worry I’ve romanticized you in distance. I count down miles with wine in plastic cups. When you pick me up, we’ll go to a dark bar, suck oysters from their shells, talk of summer like it was years ago.