Our intimacy is my favorite thing, it is the strangest one, the unlikeliest, the stuff of terrible...

Our intimacy is my favorite thing, it is the strangest one, the unlikeliest, the stuff of terrible first movies. Standing somewhere in brooklyn, hitting his arm with my fists, crying. Laying in bed looking at a jewish deli menu, trying to decide what to order for dinner. When he looks at his phone, I whine. When I cry, he suggests food.

I’m in love with him, but it isn’t explicitly sexual, or even romantic, though sometimes there are heavy sighs. It’s just one of those friendships of obsession and hatred, of deep comfort and fascination.

Sometimes we don’t want to talk, so we eat. Sometimes we eat everything we were going to say and I can feel it and then we are both fat with feeling. Usually when I am tired, he is too. Sometimes we don’t want to talk, so we sleep. We sleep close but not touching, never touching. Sometimes, in public, I sit in his lap to remind other people of their places. I do not like being posessive, but sometimes I am and it makes me Ugly and it makes him mine. Sometimes I am my Worst Self so he will take me home.

I wonder what Other People think of us when we are out together. Maybe we look normal. Sometimes I am crying and pouting and he is looking at his phone. Sometimes I am looking at my phone and he is looking at me. When he looks at me I know he is trying to answer a question, trying to solve something. When I look at him I think he will make a very handsome forty year old.

We have both been Bad and that makes it easier to be Good. When I am in the passenger seat and he is driving that is an act of love. Sometimes I wonder why he has never fucked me and I try to be sexy, just for a second. Sometimes I think he is trying to impress me and I don’t say anything.