Love In The Afternoon

How frustrating!

Having to pause to introduce myself to you, again, in front of my friends. My friends who, I'll remind you, already know about us, and think its fabulous.

How frustrating to have to explain to you, as if you have some kind of adorable post-adolescent Alzheimer's that strikes you at 23 years old, making you forget the world around you, how frustrating to have to tell you the story, over and over again from the beginning.

But here it is anyways: we love each other very much and are meant to be together. I don't know a lot about astrology, but I act like I do. I say: we're a celestially good match. I say: we don't know it but there is perfection in us digging our chins into each other's shoulders. I say: it might not seem apparent at first but we both like to arm wrestle. I say: this, the ideal summer romance, is so easy and apparent that neither of us seems ready to acknowledge it as real. Yet.

How to explain all of this to you, in the same sentence as "Hello, my name is Max?"
I don't want anyone to feel put-upon. But while we're on the topic, your very real and very lovely-seeming boyfriend is putting a serious damper on my fantasies. It's difficult to embroider a Perfect Imaginary Date, when I know that just after we hop from rooftop to rooftop, 40oz in tow, after we crash into tattoo parlors and convince people to let us draw puzzle pieces on their elbows, after we've spent all night making out at the water's edge listening to boombox cassettes playing house music in Chelsea, it's hard to imagine you going home with someone else.

(This is what I mean when I say my art form is the imaginary boyfriend. I'm thinking along these lines because this morning I see the same people everywhere all the time. And I haven't even left my house yet if you know what I mean.)

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