you on my mind again
I walked home from work tonight. Thought of you. Every dog was barking, all having a conversation I was not invited to, probably because if I was I would only talk about you, and they’re sick of it.
My sister hates you, and when I say hate I mean she would kill you given the opportunity. She’s not alone you say when I tell you this, and I say it’s the one thing her and I have in common, and you laugh, and I stare. I can’t say what you being happy does to me. I feel the sun within me like I swallowed it, all of me warm.
Lily here’s the thing: we need a better apartment! you call from the shower, which occasionally turns off for no reason and won’t go on again until the toilet is flushed. James, here’s the thing: we need more money! I call back. Being poor is a lot more romantic in the films. In reality it is having an oven that takes thirty minutes to turn off and curling into one another during winter, fingers purple.
I don’t mind being poor with you. And when I say I don’t mind I mean I obviously mind but not as much when you are with me. I don’t mind a lot of things when you are with me: flat tire, missed flight, my mother only speaking to me when my father is asleep.
That time we had no electricity that week because we had to pay our rates. Us, in the dark, holding candles you stole from Remus, playing cards for hours but only Go Fish because it was the only game you knew. After work when you got home at three and we ate crackers and made up episodes of Friends to entertain ourselves. Joey and Chandler run away to Atlantis. Phoebe transforms into an armadillo and desperately tries to gain admission into a zoo. Rachel gets arrested for stalking Queen Elizabeth. Ross dies in a house fire. They all forget to go to his funeral. And us: rolling on the floor, our laughter the only thing.
There are still things I dislike about you. You won’t take buses because you think they’re dirty. When we fight and you laugh at me. Leaving all the kitchen cabinets open so I bump into them. That I tell you about why my father hates me but you won’t tell me why yours does.
(I think it’s because of me. I often forget that you should be a lawyer right now, instead of in an apartment with me and an oven that takes thirty minutes to turn off.)
Often we talk about what our lives will be like later. When we have money. When we have time. You will buy a giant couch so Sirius will stop bitching about how uncomfortable the floor is when he’s over. I want to get a cat and name it ‘milk’ or ‘bumblebee’ or some other ridiculous thing, and when I say this you stare and then kiss me senseless. I cannot believe you love me you say. All my breath deserts me. I cannot believe I wouldn’t.
You work late nights, and I work afternoons, so in the morning we eat cereal out of the box and sit in bed, talking about what kind of dogs we’d be. I’m a beagle. You want to be a German Shepherd but in reality you’re Scottish Terrier because you’re still a bit posh and also wear glasses. Scottish Terriers don’t wear glasses you say. Yes, but they look like they should I respond. You consider this, and then nod. You’re right you agree. I take a handful of cornflakes and am so fucking glad that you’re here.
I use your toothbrush sometimes when its dark and I can’t find mine, and this is something I will never tell you, primarily because you’d freak out about it. Another thing I can never say: you always buy too much popcorn at the movies for two people to eat. I also can’t say the entire reason I still have the purple sneakers from five years ago that no longer fit me is because they were the shoes I was wearing when you told me you first told me you loved me, and I did not look beautiful, so I knew you meant it.
In truth I could spend an infinite amount of hours talking about you, and the things we do when we’re alone
(including but not limited to: playing scrabble, trying to recreate that lift from Dirty Dancing, reading books without saying anything, arguing about how long the commercial is and whether it’s worth switching the channel, you kissing my neck, bumping into one another half asleep in the kitchen, arguing about who’s turn it is to do the dishes, laughing about our neighbours and how loud their sex is, discussing whether our sex is louder than the neighbours, trying to make our sex louder than the neighbours, burning our bills once we’ve paid them, getting drunk off cheap tequila and having a dance off, lying in bed carding my hands through your hair, having a staring contest over lunch, kissing each other on the mouth, kissing each other in other places.)
But I won’t. because other people (and dogs) find it boring when you talk about another person to much. I don’t mind. I have you. They don’t. I can’t imagine how awful that is.