“You don’t want to see it? Your old house?”
It was only a minute out of the way, but I shrugged and said, “Not really.”
Chris, my oldest friend, was surprised. “I think I’m more sentimental about it than you are.”
I nodded. “You probably are.” We kept driving.
“So smoking’s your only vice?”
This from my doctor, who now knows about my height, weight, sexuality, gender identity, occasional heart arrhythmia, alcohol consumption, intermittent depression, irresponsible sexual history, exercise habits, those weird but PROBABLY NOT CANCEROUS cervical cells, and yes, my smoking.
“Yes,” I say. “And my favorite one.”
Five months since our first date. I didn’t fart in front of you until three months out. Didn’t tell you about my dad until six weeks after that. Never made you cry until yesterday. Tears slid down your face with the gravity of thirty weeks.
Are either of us sorry?
Any dog I get needs to be lazier than me. All I want is a lumpy, amicable weight on my legs during writing binges. In exchange for belly rubs, he’ll keep my feet warm, and will only make me leave the house when we’re both dying of Vitamin D deficiency.
5.) Dogs, redux.
Changed my mind. I need a dog that will keep me from overdosing on tamarind Jarritos. A dog that can play Scrabble with me when my brain won’t shut off. A dog that reminds me to take my Vitamin D supplements. A dog, in short, that’ll be the responsible one.