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I like the time between eight and ten. Bellies full, but not too full. Showered, pajamaed, content. We kiss and you taste sweet, but not too sweet. I moan into your open mouth and the thoughts of fighting are gone. If we could take the time between eight and ten and link the years into infinity, discarding the time between ten and eight, we would be happy. Always. (Barring sickness and a death in the family and too-long telephone calls and mandatory overtime and holidays.)


There are things that you don't know about me. Some of these things I didn't know about myself until, well, until recently. I've changed. These changes -- some of them are unperceivable to me. I accept this. People tell me, You're so different, You've changed. I take their word for it and add those unperceivable changes to all of the other changes that I've witnessed with my own two eyes, so to speak.

Do you wonder about the difference? Of course I'm thinking of it now, but I don't know if I really wonder about the difference in you. I picture you the same as you were. As if a person can't change their stripes. With wisdom and insight, with effort, can we change who we are? Introvert to extrovert. Asshole to angel. Egoist to altruist. Glass-half-empty to glass-half-full. Maybe we'll have this conversation one day, twenty, thirty, fifty years from now.

Ten thousand years from now, will I then be able to talk to you without thinking that maybe she's just pieces of me you've never seen?


I have a yellow bath mat. The yellow of diet margarine. The color is in sharp contrast to the dullness of the rest of the bathroom. Stained-tooth white shower curtain. Day-old-cheerios-in-milk beige toilet. Big-toe-toenail yellow-grey sink.

Over the past few days when sitting on the toilet, I've gazed, transfixed, at the new stain on the yellow bath mat. The stain of one droplet of blood. I don't know whose blood it is. I suppose it could be mine, but I can't remember the last time I bled, and if I can't remember the last time I bled, I'd think I would have noticed it by now. It might not be blood at all. I don't waste the time on thinking what else it might be, because it really does look like blood.

We showered today. First me, then you. At the end of it all, the bath mat was wet, and the blood stain had bled. Now, each time I go to the bathroom, I sit on the toilet and wonder at how that one small droplet has slowly become a very large, watered-down patch of overripe watermelon red. I wonder how it will end.