“We get high. We drink gin and squeeze fresh lime into our hand full’s of popcorn. Sitting in front of the fire we watch the simpsons projected onto the wall. I show you a photo of my father, with his neat hair and moustache, and tell you that homer is his hero. In your room we take turns getting changed in the hallway. Your room is near and your bed is so soft and warm. it folds around me like a cocoon. you turn on the radio and we listen to the philosophy hour. A woman talking about god, or the spirit, or nature or something. We open our books but we don’t read for long before talking again. We are acting like we’ve been married for thirty years when we’ve only known each other a month. You fall asleep with the radio on. Oh, the things you must learn in your dreams! in the morning we rise early. I drop my phone behind the bed and our hands touch briefly reaching for it. We leave with no ritual to see a film neither of us likes. I get a message from my mother saying something about the rain while we navigate through children at the museum. I find myself getting way ahead of you between the displays. I look at the same things three of four times over waiting for you to catch up. in the car we listen to the beatles, and sit in comfortable sleepy silence.” words by cara fox
image © douglas e pope
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