Wordsmoker

This is your boyfriend. Your live-in boyfriend who clings to clutter like it’s a life raft.  If you need to quote from Dan Savage’s post in The Guardian from oh say May of 2005, you’re in luck, because it’s all there in piles in your living room. Once, when you first moved in together, you found a box next to his desk that contained old love letters, apparently never sent (yes you snooped; that room is communal), and in one he plaintively recounted for a  lukewarm girl their sublime night together on a rooftop and the disarming line her arabesqued slipdress made against her summery thighs. You felt bad for snooping, but you felt even worse about that damned dress.  You never had a dress like that.  You wear jeans and t-shirts, and buy flouncy skirts you never quite get around to wearing, because the Jergens gradual tanning lotion left strange designs on your shins.  Does he resent you for this, quietly, and often?

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