We made up. That was the worst fight ev-ER.
I don’t fight with anyone. I leave. My boyfriend refers to me as a “flight risk”. That is a bit of my mantra.
There’s more than one reason that I have two passports.
I’ve been in Brooklyn since Friday. Later on today, when I’m done with work, I’m going to write filthy stories about Cony Island.
I’ll post one tonight.
There’s something about Anthony and I that is utterly divine. We’re never allowed to fight again. We promised.
The clap of our argument was beyond. There were bad things said and I was fed-exing notebooks of words.
And then we spent four days making up. We made up all over the place. My apartment, his place, the back of a yellow cab, Cony Island beach, the boardwalk, various Brooklyn sidewalks…
For me to have gotten as upset as I did, I can only assume he’s forever.
When the two of us get together, my life starts. I occupy my time in between with Writing and skyscrapers and all of these things I came back to Manhattan for. But when he and I are within a physical proximity of one another, everything changes.
I have to wash my face and go to work. I’m currently in my panties, wearing his shirt, slightly hung over.
No matter. I’ve got this.