Romance always changes. It’s different when you want the girl, and when you have the girl, and when you’ve had the girl. It’s different when you’re three months in, and when you’re a year in. It’s different when you’re twelve and when you’re eighteen and when you’re thirty. I wonder what love will be like when I’m forty. Will I have a wife, will I love her, will she love me?
It was about three in the afternoon and the sun was out and it was hot and I put on this mix CD Eva once gave me. She had The Beatles in there and Frou Frou in there and other tracks, some RnB ones, some romantic ones. But I didn’t tell you this. You were just there, in my car, and I had no idea what the hell you were thinking but you were smiling slightly. Are you happy? Sad? Horny? Who are you? We parked at my place in silence. Holding hands, we went up the elevator in silence, and we walked to my apartment door in silence and I opened it and I walked in and you went to the toilet and I headed for the balcony. Although I was looking outside at all of the beautiful trees and all of the interesting people walking by the street, I wasn’t really there; I was in bullshit land, and bullshit land was populated by a bullshit number of people who believed in a bullshit list of ideals.
You yelled something out from the toilet and I said, “What?” and you sighed and said, “Never mind,” and you hummed something, and I checked my phone for messages. You emerged from the toilet a new person, and we sat on my couch and we talked about things until you fell asleep on my lap.
Book I’m currently reading: The People Look Like Flowers At Last