Life was the rent, and the fickle vacuum cleaner, and the slow creep of silence, a silence I wanted to understand as intimacy, but couldn’t help reading as decay, as we sat quietly at our kitchen table, over godly tomatoes: Have we run out of things to say? These changes were only ordinary, but I’d never stuck around to watch love become daily. I was afraid Dave would regret the life we’d made together, afraid I couldn’t constantly produce a version of myself that he’d like enough to choose over everyone else—which I believed was a requirement of love. Wasn’t that the difference between love
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