I wanted to tell her about a lot of things: how I wanted to kiss her in front of a zoo, how I hated the loneliness, how I wanted to face my fears yet flee for them – but I’d been told, repeatedly, that happiness could never be found by obsessing over oneself but that instead you had to give your heart to people who need one, so I asked her, “And you? How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Good? You can’t be good.”

Christie laughed. “Why can’t I be good?”

“If everything was fine in your life it means you’re at the end, you’re at the last chapter.”

“Believe it or not, Dean, you can live life being content with everything.”

“Didn’t I tell you? That Thor guy said I was destined to live a life of suffering.”

“Everyone suffers. They just deal with it differently.”

Something was playing on Spotify from my iPad and it bothered me that Christie never had a say about what kind of music was playing in the background. But I didn’t tell her this. I picked her up, and she asked me, “Have I gotten heavier?”

“I’ve just gotten weaker.”

And I spun her, and as my mind rested elsewhere my apartment walls crumbled, and out came the stars and the roses and the popcorn and the lights, and there were so many things I wanted to say, so many drinks I wanted to drink, so many tears I wanted to cry, but I did none of that and I just watched Christie’s shirt as I spun her around and did not let go.

_

Book I’m reading: Perennial Seller