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“Maybe the female population of Europe finally realized he’s as compelling as a wet ball of yarn,”
says the man, who looks like his name is probably Reginald or Bartholomew or something.
“As your mother, I can appreciate that maybe this isn’t your fault, but as the president, all I want is to have the CIA fake your death and ride the dead-kid sympathy into a second term.”
After Secret Service misread an olive-based shouting match in 2017 and almost put the Residence on lockdown, they now each get their own pizzas.
Are they too drunk to communicate in English? He wonders distantly if Henry knows any Spanish.
he’s starting to see some flaws in his logic. Straight people, he thinks, probably don’t spend this much time convincing themselves they’re straight.
He’s absolutely sure that guys who kissed a Prince of England and liked it don’t get elected to represent Texas.
He’s not thinking about Henry in the shower or at night, alone and wide awake in his bed. Except for when he is. Which is always.
God, if any ghosts of Founding Fathers are hanging around the White House tonight, they must really be suffering.
In an instant of sudden, vivid clarity, he can’t believe he ever thought he was straight.
The smell of burnt strawberry milkshake on a sweaty frat guy is really something.”
History, huh? Bet we could make some.
You see, for me, memories are difficult. Very often, they hurt. A curious thing about grief is the way it takes your entire life, all those foundational years that made you who you are, and makes them so painful to look back upon because of the absence there, that suddenly they’re inaccessible. You must invent an entirely new system.
You and me and history, remember? We’re just gonna fucking fight. Because you’re it, okay? I’m never gonna love anybody in the world like I love you.
It would be a lie, because it wouldn’t be him.
there’s a corner of your mouth, and a place that it goes. pinched and worried like you’re afraid you’re forgetting something. i used to hate it. used to think it was your little tic of disapproval. but i’ve kissed your mouth, that corner, that place it goes, so many times now. i’ve memorized it. topography on the map of you, a world i’m still charting. i know it. i added it to the key. here: inches to miles. i can multiply it out, read your latitude and longitude. recite your coordinates like la rosaria.

