We ate cabbage and it meant everything


We were both naked but only one of us was crying. We both hoped – remember,
these were the days of big strawberries, leg hair and shiny photography of
apartment buildings – that it was it you, except you were a big blue statue
of a famous dog, with no tears in its eyes, and I was a valley of tears.
I was crying like the rivers in India into whatever ocean those rivers go. You
asked why I know so much about ‘these goddamn geography facts.’ I cried
‘I know nothing!’ You walked over to the dressing table and proceeded
to angrily wipe every surface you could with a flannel. ‘You are my
homeboy!’ you wailed. ‘The world is the belly of something.’
I replied. A pop song came through the window, from a parked
van, and from then on everything was crying. The mirrors, the drapes, the wallpaper,
and you. From then on there was no room to pretend that we belonged
to a race who do not cry when we hear pop music, who do not cry
when we hear ‘The Drugs don’t Work’ by the Verve or ‘Nightswimming’ by R.E.M.

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