And You Can Wear Your Mirrored Sunglasses When You Are Scared

Ten years from now when you are old and I am older we will live together in a house you bought off Craigslist in a suburb of a city you are familiar with and I am not. I will be looking forward to new adventures and explorations in this suburb and this city. I will be looking for things to embrace, destroy, and mourn.

You will not be one of these things.

We will sleep on the third floor. We will sit on the balcony that overlooks our neighbor’s pool and have coffee while reading the newspaper. Every other day I will do the Jumble and you will do the crossword. You will ask me what an eight-letter word for “fluffy round breakfast food” is and I’ll say, “Pancakes, stupid”. I will ask you to make sense of “HTBEIRR” and you will say, “Rebirth, stupid.” I will kiss your cheek and clear the dishes.

The second floor of the house is where we will watch movies and play board games like Monopoly, Scrabble, and Mousetrap. Also solitaire and gin rummy. Sometimes we will be drunk because of the fully stocked bar and perfectly square ice cubes that look like glass and beg like whores for gin to be poured all over them. All of the movies we watch will have Dabney Coleman in them or will be based on novels that are adapted into screenplays or have Megan Fox in them or are porn. It is on the couch in front of the television that we will discover we both are big fans of mutual masturbation.

I will smell your fingers and you will smell mine.

The first floor of the house is where we will conduct business and where we will listen to our music very loudly. This is where the computers will be. I will blog and you will blog. You will teach me about Greek mythology and I will teach you how to make Spam fried rice. Books will be read and discussed. Plants will be watered and killed. You will make up dance moves that are as stupid as they are wonderful. I will videotape them for our internet fans.

We will yell “fuck off wanker!” in our meanest British accents to any solicitors. I’ll eat the Copenhagen out of your lower lip. You will knit an afghan from my stretch marks and never stop telling me how great my boobs are. We’ll fuck only when we’re sad and hold hands when nobody’s looking and keep the bathroom door open when we pee. At night, when one of us wakes up and the other isn’t there, we will know that if we go out to the balcony that overlooks the neighbor’s pool we’ll find the other, staring at the night sky, searching for UFOs.