Random neuron firing, lame philosophy, literary pontificating, movies, sex, clothes & other femme stuff

Sunday, February 08, 2004

Back to normal

Yesterday, I came home late in the afternoon. She was already there, collapsed limply on the couch, lights out, watching TV, looking ill.

I sit down, wary, worried, wondering. Almost immediately, she jumps up and runs to the bathroom. I follow and while she retches hold her head and stroke her back and shoulders. When she catches her breath, she asks why I love her. 'Cuz of her her, I say ("your you," i.e.). We're not having a fight anymore, it seems. She drank too much, she volunteers, a little supererogatorily. And she and Matt "fooled around." Quel surprise. Did they have sex? (Most of what she calls "fooling around" in her stories I call "having sex" in mine [e.g., I'd say what we were doing with the tranny when her girlfriend freaked out the other weekend was "having sex"], but we're speaking Leigh's dialect here, in which with men "having sex" is reserved solely for penile penetration.) Doesn't remember. Doesn't think so. "Oh, let's just get married right away," she says, plaintive, tragic. I smile at her, the silly, and reply, "Totally," for the gazillionth time.
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