“What we say about ourselves has nothing to do with what’s true,” I said. “It has to do with what people told us about ourselves.” We’d mentioned a friend with dyslexia who says they’re a horrible writer.
“Is it raining?” I asked.
“I don’t know–let me check my phone,” he said, and we laughed.
He opened the door to look. I thought about windows and Windows. “No–let’s go for a bike ride right now,” he said.
I was still eating my oatmeal. I thought the chia seeds would fluff up a bit. “I’m going to wear my mitochondria dress. What do you think? I think the world will explode with awesomeness,” I said.
I wanted a cereal box to make blanks for atcs, and he handed one to me slightly wet from his clean hands. “You got water on it,” I said, wiping the water from the slightly glossy cardstock.
“Oh, sorry,” he said.
“It’s ok. Water isn’t the friend of paper,” I said. “Or they want to be friends, but it’s not going to work out.” I thought of my whole life. This really amazing priceless book–I think only a few were made–and a little drop of water….o god. I must change the subject.
We wanted to mark our locks so we could tell them apart–the right key for the right lock. I looked for nailpolish and found the place it used to be, a shiny metallic pink makeup bag–empty. I gave it all to my mom, years ago, when I decided never to paint my nails again.
Ming said zipties, colorful zipties. I said ok. Nailpolish is only a dollar at the dollar store. “When the apocalypse ends, we can go to the dollar store and get some.”
“When the apocalypse ends?” Ming asked.
“If it ends,” I corrected myself.
“If the apocalypse ends, we won’t need bike locks,” he said.
“Because we’ll be dead?” I asked.
“Oh, anarchist fantasy?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Still need bike locks,” I said. “There are still bike thieves in the anarchist fantasy.”
He conceded–I could be right. But I like the way you think, my darling.