A Block of Salt

There will come a time when the only man left is your best friend’s boyfriend and it’s not that you have an attachment, really, except in transference, in that kissing him is kissing her, knowing her leg contours in more detail than sleepovers allow for.

He says, “I’ll leave her for you,” and you say, “No,” and he repeats his phrase until he’s in your mouth, a part of your day, the only text you pay attention to. Jack was not solid: you were two hands lingering on ketchup bottles, salt shakers, meeting illicitly for coffee (is there any other kind of coffee you wonder?) but now you’re back in the same city, the lie is thicker like cream when you take a fork to it, or water with gravy granules in.

And the moment it happened is a well-cut trailer in your head for a film you joked you’d never see. He comes to you in dreams at 8.56, minutes before you’re meant to wake, saying, “I screwed her and I kissed you and I understand your body better than you do and have you considered fate, that Plato was right, we’re halves, our navels are scars the other left? What if she’s Megan Fox and you’re Rosie Huntington-Whiteley? ”

Your only crime is watching him leave after he’s left, and you get Lot’s wife looking back, when memory’s all that anchors you and every shitty thing that you did, or someone did, doesn’t mean you want to see it all burn. Doesn’t mean you won’t try save it.

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Everyone You Meet is Fighting a Hard Battle

Jack says, “I wish my image was specific, that there were sets of clothes I wore on weekends, that if photos were taken of me I would look consistent and you could expect certain things about me.”

He’s been looking at the Barton Hollow inlay, wondering if we’ve the sorts of voices which fit unexpectedly, if we should be cultivating our images presciently, if there’s hope for us being self-made successes together or separately.

“You could make a choice now,” I tell him, “to always wear a tie or bow tie, to never be pictured without suit jackets or smart shoes. And there’s coming up with a band name based on Plato or a philosopher you think that we stand for.”

But we did this in school. Made a list in history lessons of what to call our band when we had one, or if. And the best that we came up with? Overeaters Anonymous.

“Maybe this starts with Philosophy Book Club?” I ask, knowing it should start with an accident.

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