The First Bad Man

by Miranda July

I realized that we all think we might be terrible people. But we only reveal this before we ask someone to love us. It is a kind of undressing.

His hand had a heat and weight that only real hands do. A hundred imaginary hands would never be this warm.

Was all this real to her? Did she think it was temporary? Or maybe that was the point of love: not to think.

If you were wise enough to know that this life would consist mostly of letting go of things you wanted, then why not get good at the letting go, rather than the trying to have?

I came back, slipped into her arms, slept and slept. Morning had gotten lost on the way home. We would lie this way forever, always saying goodbye, never parting.