General Relativity (126-127/?)
anonymous
August 31 2010, 04:26:40 UTC
CXXVI. A Continuum of Two Dimensions
“Are you going out for Valentine’s Day?” Kiku asked, as they sat on his bed and folded their conjoined laundry into neat, practical squares. They’d run out of fabric softener this week, but Matthew was relieved to find it didn’t make too much of a difference.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I think Alfred wants to.”
“He hasn’t said?”
“Well. Yes, he wants to. He’s said. More or less.”
Kiku gave a slight, barely perceptible frown. “But you don’t.”
There was a streak of robin-egg blue fluff on Matthew’s jeans. He scratched at it, clearing it away with this thumbnail. “Have you ever been so involved with a person-not like dating, I mean enveloped, like they’re twisted in your emotions and thoughts so intricately that you can’t pull them out without, uh, without pulling out parts of yourself-that you’re terrified of being consumed?”
“No.”
“Am I moving forward too fast?”
“The last time I was in love,” said Kiku, “I never looked out the window and sighed when she wasn’t there. Instead, we drifted and bumped elbows when it pleased us. Eventually, we drifted apart altogether. Maybe you have to be eaten to be kept, when it comes to that.”
CXXVII. This Distance Being Measurable and Well-Defined
By the time the holiday arrived, Matthew decided that he wasn’t going to do anything to celebrate it beyond give Alfred his box of candy.
Unfortunately, first he unlocked his campus mailbox and opened the Valentine’s Day card that was stashed in it. The single-sheet card was white and simple. It said, in dark red marker:
Roses are #FF0000. Violets are #0000FF. All my base are belong to you.
I don’t have your way with words, but Happy Valentine’s Day!
- Alfred
Matthew covered his mouth to muffle the bark of laughter.
He called Alfred. “It’s too late to get a reservation somewhere,” he told him, “but if you’ll let me borrow your kitchen, I’d love to cook you dinner.”
(They had Salisbury steak with sautéed bacon and onion. Alfred put on Frank Sinatra afterward, and they listened to the legend croon as they sat together on the sofa, wrapped around each other in a lazy, content way that belied their circumstances. They didn’t speak much at all, but it was a terribly comfortable silence. It was two in the morning before Matthew realized the time; he left feeling buoyant, well-kissed, and ready to face anything in his way.)
“Are you going out for Valentine’s Day?” Kiku asked, as they sat on his bed and folded their conjoined laundry into neat, practical squares. They’d run out of fabric softener this week, but Matthew was relieved to find it didn’t make too much of a difference.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I think Alfred wants to.”
“He hasn’t said?”
“Well. Yes, he wants to. He’s said. More or less.”
Kiku gave a slight, barely perceptible frown. “But you don’t.”
There was a streak of robin-egg blue fluff on Matthew’s jeans. He scratched at it, clearing it away with this thumbnail. “Have you ever been so involved with a person-not like dating, I mean enveloped, like they’re twisted in your emotions and thoughts so intricately that you can’t pull them out without, uh, without pulling out parts of yourself-that you’re terrified of being consumed?”
“No.”
“Am I moving forward too fast?”
“The last time I was in love,” said Kiku, “I never looked out the window and sighed when she wasn’t there. Instead, we drifted and bumped elbows when it pleased us. Eventually, we drifted apart altogether. Maybe you have to be eaten to be kept, when it comes to that.”
CXXVII. This Distance Being Measurable and Well-Defined
By the time the holiday arrived, Matthew decided that he wasn’t going to do anything to celebrate it beyond give Alfred his box of candy.
Unfortunately, first he unlocked his campus mailbox and opened the Valentine’s Day card that was stashed in it. The single-sheet card was white and simple. It said, in dark red marker:
Roses are #FF0000.
Violets are #0000FF.
All my base are belong to you.
I don’t have your way with words, but Happy Valentine’s Day!
- Alfred
Matthew covered his mouth to muffle the bark of laughter.
He called Alfred. “It’s too late to get a reservation somewhere,” he told him, “but if you’ll let me borrow your kitchen, I’d love to cook you dinner.”
(They had Salisbury steak with sautéed bacon and onion. Alfred put on Frank Sinatra afterward, and they listened to the legend croon as they sat together on the sofa, wrapped around each other in a lazy, content way that belied their circumstances. They didn’t speak much at all, but it was a terribly comfortable silence. It was two in the morning before Matthew realized the time; he left feeling buoyant, well-kissed, and ready to face anything in his way.)
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