Sketch of a misunderstanding
I am exhausted. It seems we have the same conversation each year. Each stolen moment is marred by the inevitable fall-out that only shows its face disguised as philosophy. As “talking”. I long to rest my weary head right back on the pillow we pushed away to make space for our bodies, heavy with the wait and the expectations. I thought we were fleetingly hungry only, perusing this one option with curiosity. I believed we were looking not to grasp, but grab the other person, not measure limp to limp but dig right in where it counts most. Instead, I learn and now grimace painfully, you are hungry for sustenance.
“Can you deny that the fact you are hiding this from Julia makes it more thrilling? Are you ready to tell me that the very reason for this is not that it makes your sex life with Julia so much better?” I try to be reasonable. Because whenever we meet, there are more questions than in the previous year. You sulk quietly as I tell you to write a damn novel about it already.