Like the Word Crazy Carved into a Chair

Jack asks me what the film’s like so I tell him, imagine two people, maybe Jessie and Celene at the end of Before Sunrise, saying, “Let’s do long distance. Let’s pretend it works even when we know that it won’t. And we’ll make trips between our two places in our respective countries and there’ll be something romantic in the traveling – in the changing skylines and altering imagery.”

“That doesn’t sound great,” Jack says. “I dated this girl once. She was in Scotland, I was here. And despite how many texts I sent or how swift I was to reply every time she tried to call or email, it wasn’t enough, and I ended up strung out, unsure how relationships last even in the same city.”

“Me too,” I tell him, “I agree.”

And even though we’re here, and we meet most days, and we like enough of the same films and bands and restaurants to spend enough time together to warrant being together, there are moments at 5, at 7 in the morning when I wonder if the space behind my breast, above my rib bone, behind muscle and fat, ever felt full, or if that’s how it’s been, always, since I slipped from my mother, like the loose piece in the skin behind my ear or the lump on the left side of my skull.

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