That Life That Would Maybe Be Kind Of Nice If It Were Real

My grandmother’s couch is in the cellar. Eventually I had to concede that it’s almost comically small and I’m the only person who fits on it comfortably so it went into a place where no one felt been obliged to feign like it was their seat of choice. I likely still sleep on it on nights when I’m up too late and can’t stop my mind from racing. He comes down and coverings me with a blanket but doesn’t ask me to come to bed because he knows what I’m like to sleep next to and is likely secretly thrilled that he has a night off from sleeping next to tossing and turning. I constantly complain about the wifi velocity and how it’s bullshit that you have compromise on megabytes when you live in the country. I still suck at horticulture but have somehow managed to grow herbs that is really doing surprisingly well. He’s hung spider plants and aloe vera all around the house and it infuriates me that I expend all this time trying to be like the Barefoot Contessa and trying to have this beautiful, sprawling garden but end up simply buying all my produce because I am inept and he could probably whisper at a tree and it would start growing fruit. We’re always playing records and he yells at me when I order Top 40 albums from Urban Outfitters on vinyl. I’ve still never get into fishing. But we both drink black coffee now and I wonder how I ever insisted on requiring soy milk to make it palatable. Whenever people come to visit they remind me of City Me who was manic and high strung and worked 11 hour days and often woke up having nightmares about her email. They comment about how calm I am here. How mellow I seem. They likely construct gags about how scary it is to see me actually pacify, and poke fun about when I’ll eventually snap and go back to civilization. And I merely laugh it off because I know that as cliche and stupid as it audios, my heart always belonged out there. So even though I miss things like delivery and public transportation and block parties, it’s worth it. We’re worth it. I decided to compromise and construct something new entirely because if I’ve done it before by myself how much better can it be when you do it with someone else. I decided that simply because I didn’t need him, and never will, I wanted him. And so I let him move my grandmother’s couch into the cellar because it really is kind of small. And because when you decide to let someone in, compromise doesn’t have to feel like dedicating perfectly everything up in order to make room.

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