All Fours

by Miranda July

the cover of Horses was a black-and-white photograph. Instead of knowing that this was a stylistic choice, like vintage clothes, I unconsciously associated the record with the deep past of black-and-white movies. If anyone asked I would have probably managed to assign the album to the right decade, but most of life is a vapor of unconscious associations, never brought to light.

On that day we walked mostly in silence. Was he bored? Had we run through all the possible topics? Would this be the last walk?

Such a relatable, specific moment in a relafionship.

I walked around the bar. It was so clean. I supposed the last time I’d hung out in bars was before indoor smoking had been outlawed. Young people sat in amiable groups and pairs with seemingly no intrigue surrounding them.

An overly skilled lover was kind of icky—desire should make you clumsy. I always imagined us tripping all over ourselves with hunger.

If life was completely incredible, if every moment was a perfect 10, then we’d all be totally present all the time. I know because the past and the future were of no interest to me in Monrovia. Thinking about them seemed like a waste of now.