You put on your bicycle helmet to enter a Port-a-Potty. You did not merely step off your bicycle and neglect to remove your helmet. That would be different. When I hopped in after you to urinate, you looked at me with shame.
I said, “What?” Because I pissed without my helmet on, you would not kiss me for two hours. I like that about you.
You said, “Stop putting me on your geek pussy pedestal, there are a thousand people just like me. Is it wrong of me to say pussy?”
There are things about you that are wrong. My gut tells me so. I think about you while I’m driving and my teeth hurt. It’s a throbbing feeling that I can’t control, so I throw my wallet out the window. Then I wonder why I did that, and I can’t laugh. My teeth don’t hurt anymore, but I know that you are a deeply deranged and perilously poised person, because the mere thought of you propels me to do something ludicrous like this. If we were on an island, I would spend all day picking berries, and then I would throw them in the ocean. If we were lost in a cave deep underground, I would impale myself on a stalagmite.
But we’re where we are. You clench my hair in your fingernails and I smell a mix of your skin and my heartbeat. What I do to you in these moments is like throwing a thousand wallets out one window.
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Portland Fiction Project
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