(no subject)

[catelin]

Glimpses of My Old Living Room

There was a day in June when we lay on our backs and put our legs up in the air, comparing the size of our toes while Bette Davis looked out from the television at our secondhand sofa covered with so much dog hair that it seemed to be sprouting from our asses and proclaimed, "What a dump!" The room was so bright that we could watch the specks of dust dance in the air above us when we laughed. The only way to look at us that day would have been through a pinhole cut into a piece of cardboard so we wouldn't burn everyone's eyes with all the sunlight resting on our lovestruck bellies. That was before October, and another day when I realized it had been almost two weeks since you'd actually said my name. It just seemed to me that there was a point to saying the name of the person you loved at least three times a day, maybe even more. You told me I was being silly and all I could think of was us on the couch that day, giggling and necking like a couple of idiots. I thought maybe if you'd kept saying my name, you might have remembered that too.

Comments

[quiet-life.livejournal.com]

In one paragraph, you manage to make me feel it as if it was my own memory; great writing, as usual.