I wanted to feel the brain-fuzzing intimacy I’d felt when texting with him, and I liked kissing him.
He was a good kisser. But then the thoughts came, and I could feel his spit alive in my mouth.
I pulled away as subtly as I could manage. “You okay?” “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, totally. Just want to...”
I was trying to think of what a normal person would say, like maybe if I could just say and do whatever normal people say and do,
then he would believe me to be one, or maybe that I could even become one.
“Take it slow?” he suggested. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, exactly.” “Cool.” He nodded toward the movie.
I’ve been waiting for this scene. You’ll love it. It’s bonkers.”
There’s an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem that’s been rumbling around inside me ever since I first read it,
and part of it goes, “Blown from the dark hill hither to my door I Three flakes, then four I Arrive, then many more.”
You can count the first three flakes, and the fourth. Then language fails, and you have to settle in and try to survive the blizzard.
So it was with the tightening spiral of my thoughts: I thought about his bacteria being inside of me.
I thought about the probability that some percentage of said bacteria were malicious.
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