I always thought unlikely happened, never saw it, and prefered it that way: it’s easier to believe something you can’t see, don’t know, sometimes.
Instead of laughing at your jokes I gave you square stares until you knew I’d absorbed you like Disaronno, pretty quickly into my bloodstream. I disagreed with you wherever possible, and even though banter or fake hate is a sign of relationship angst, I was more subtle than that. Business like. I was the pencil and you were the bitch.
You played along to a point until I couldn’t read every answer or underlying signal or subtitle and the plethora of meanings you gave out on any one day. The flutter of doubt sank me afternoons, post-midnight, whenever I’d watch Titanic (more often than I’d like, or you).
I hold tight, meditate on incomplete sentences and post-it note hand overs at end of night shifts you start as I leave or vice versa. If we switched bodies I’d make my move faster. The potential’s just hanging in the air like a 3 day old helium balloon, not spent yet.