Formulae

Jack asks why I’m with him, why we’re together. I tell him there aren’t rules, formulas, structures like songs have, stories, determining what we do, why we do things. Some people hope that there are, buy into law-making, omnipotent forces telling us rights and wrongs, but really it’s only us now, and who’s to say the decision I made he hated was altogether wrong?

“You have an opinion,” I tell him, “and I respect that, but that’ s all that it is – opinion – and what I do is my prerogative.”

He tells me I’ve got the wrong attitude. We sleep next to each other for the first time in three weeks and in the morning, he kisses me when we wake, habit overriding, making him forget what I did, why he’s mad. In ten years will we even remember?

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