“I think of you as pathetic. But that’s not to say much else. I mean,
you still wear fucking pajamas to bed. When are you going to decide to
fucking grow up? Do you think for once that I am at all proud of sleeping
with a fucking kid? How would you feel if I still slept in my pajamas? Don’t you think you would view me as pretty fucking strange? No, wait, I bet you would think it cute or some such motherfucking shit. Well, let me tell you right now, I am not cute, not to anyone, especially you. So don’t sit there and think that. I fucking hate cute. Cute is so fucking OUT.”
She said all of this as we were lying in bed that night, that first
night, when the stars were out and the moon was big and bright and tearful in the sky and there were little breezes that we couldn’t see but knew were there so we trusted them not to turn into some gigantic hurricane or something and to just be breezy, full of harmless innocence. But she was mad about something, it was so long ago I can’t really remember what. We were young then, now we’re not. She would never say those things, not to me or anyone else. But I still see her as cute. She’s cuter now than she ever was.
Look, I’m a pretty nice guy, I got my foibles, but who doesn’t? Give me a break. It’s just that I think the earth spins on its own axis by itself
because that’s what it was designed to do. We spin and turn and dance and mumble and stumble and, as she would have said then, Fuck Everything Up eventually. But isn’t that what it’s exactly all about? Messing up is okay if the person who messed up learns from the mistake and tries never to do it again.
Okay, I’m stopping now. I was just remembering our first night together and how wonderful I thought it would be. Well, forget it, because that was years and years ago and there’s nothing I can do to change it now. Soon, we’ll all be gone and nothing here will matter all that much.