My partner and I have been really getting along.
I am going to say the word now.
Excuse me while I go writhe on the floor and then puke. I’m sure I’ll be fine. Afterward. In a minute. Or an hour. Or something.
This closeness, this utter tenderness, this fierce desire to make sure she’s okay, this affectionate, wry amusement, this moment of knowing, this listening, this seeing. Her beautiful skin. Her utter boyness in boy clothes. The way she wants to be touching me all the time. This history, these twenty-five years, the way we’ve hurt each other and then mended, or not. This person who is my family, who holds the knowing of me, who is trying to let me hold the knowing of her. The way she is so afraid I’ll leave her, stop seeing her, or just disappear. The way I’m so afraid she’d…
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