Friday, December 5, 2008


You’ve officially moved in, and I have to build a ramp up to the front door. It takes me six hours to finish. Things feel heavier now that you’re here.

My house—correction, our house—seems to be going through a sort of interior design puberty: an awkward transition period between my living arrangements and your tasteful decorating. And, as with adolescence, things start to appear in places they haven’t before. Except in our case, it’s throw rugs.

I really have to go to work today.


Because it’s my job to go to work.

No one’s going to fire you.

Yes, but no one’s going to pay me if I don’t fill some orders.

“ ”

You’re an expert in suggestive silence.

It starts to be that I can’t get a moment to myself. I can’t go jogging, because you say it exploits your lack of mobility; I can’t go to work, because you say it hurts you to see me leave; I can’t even watch TV, because you say you need more cigarettes.

I begin to enjoy the view inside my eyelids more and more. It’s the only thing I see between you and me.

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