A love story told in dictionary bursts. From the first date through moving in, through cheating and death and all that life throws at you. Well done, easily consumable in an hour and well worth the time.
“I want my books to have their own shelves,” you said, and that’s how I knew it would be okay to live together.
No, I don’t listen to the weather in the morning. No, I don’t keep track of what I spend. No, it hadn’t occurred to me that the Q train would have been much faster. But every time you give me that look, it doesn’t make me want to live up to your standards.
Those mornings when we kiss and surrender for an hour before we say a single word.
You love my parents, I know. But you never get too close. You never truly believe there aren’t bad secrets underneath.
It’s the way you say thank you like you’re genuinely thankful. I have never met anyone else who does that on a regular basis.
…I want to take back the time I said you were a genius, because I was being sarcastic and I should have just said you’d hurt my feelings.
I don’t like it when you use my shampoo, because then your hair smells like me, not you.
There are days you come home silent. You say words, but you’re still silent. I used to bomard you with convesational crowbars, but now I simply let the apartment fall mute. I hear you in the room — turning on music, typing on the keys, getting up for a drink, shifting in your chair. I try to have my conversation with those sounds.