We bathe in the light of nostalgia. She pours another round. We make sloppy love on the kitchen floor. In the morning, we both feel our age.
Twisters
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Is this the end of your desire? What did I do to you? Was it my breath? My words? The way I smell? Or are you just unbelievably picky maybe?
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I’m staring over your shoulder at the words you are reading. I want to tell you this, to whisper in your ear. Even though your book is awful.
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Your house smells like cheese, I say to looks of recrimination. And my wife whispers, They’re lactose intolerant. But I can’t deny the smell.
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We walked under a sky of a most magical blue. The walk was the culmination of our longing. I stared into her eyes. I stepped in poop, I said.
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The noise in the restaurant was like an unbearable humidity. We yelled at each other to talk. Then she stormed out. I’d told her I loved her.
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I wrote her a letter of love. I poured my emotions into words I hoped would move her. She called me and said, I didn’t realize you were old.
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We watch the sun and she wonders about life and death and the precarious nature of nature. She takes my hand. While I melt from the boredom.
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My phone starts vibrating in my pocket. She puts her hand on it and says, I would enjoy that a bit too much. And then forget I have a phone.
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The dust gets into his lungs and he coughs. She says, I know it’s dirty. He coughs again, and then it’s the asthma. She takes it personally.
