Mi amor, you are my moon, mi luna, orbiting around my soul… of course, you are my stars too, my sun star especially, and how do you do it? You are also my Earth. My water and oxygen. You personify my hope for a better universe. Your eyes, skin, hair, motion, breaths… all shine true virtue in my eyes. But which virtues and how do I know they’re “true virtues” — ? Where would I even begin? You cared to ask why I felt so hurt. Maybe to some people such a simple question isn’t worth so much but life is so complex that often enough people inadvertently (perhaps; I hope) don’t give a fuck unless you’re giving them money, or special attention and you’re someone they want special attention from. It’s not an utterly bad thing, per se. We can’t do and be all things for all people. Which makes your genuine caring all the more meaningful. It is not mere rote duty applied to those who arbitrarily pass us by. It’s intentional, private, intimate, and personal. Does that make sense to you?” “Yes,” you said. I regret how absurdly not “down to earth.” I can be, sometimes, refusing to answer, just sitting there, staring plaintively at the air, when you ask “what’s the matter?” But darling, the thing is that I just don’t want to make your day any sadder. I don’t want reek of weakness either. And yet, I can’t make those dark gray episodes just disintegrate…” … “that’s why I’m always telling you to meditate,” you said. And then I said, “But I forget., So then I feel really quite ashamed. Lame. What? I mean, am I going to just say again, ‘hey babe, you earned more money than me and I’m mad fucking jealous about it, and even more jealous cause I imagine men with more money who would fuck you better than I can, fuck you while lifting you up, hold you against the wall…” Of course, you always assure me that’s not what you want. And you said, “okay, but what do you want me to do about my salary? Refuse the money?” I said “no of course not.” “Okay, then,” you said, And then asked, “honey, won’t you come to bed now?” I said “okay.” I drank a few shots of whiskey, joined you in bed and said I’d “absolutely cry my life away, like, literally everyday, if suddenly you didn’t want to stay with me anymore.” “Do you still like to explore me?” I asked. “I mean, like, do I still make you horny?” “You think about sex and money a lot,” you said. ‘Two things that really fuck with peoples’ heads,” I said. “But anyway, why wouldn’t you want to be with someone who fucks better and makes a lot more money? Wouldn’t that make you happier?” “Thirteen years with me and you think I’ve suddenly turned shallow?” “No. Not shallow. It’s just that somehow I feel I’ve atrophied.” You laughed. “I’m sorry for laughing but sometimes you can be so over-dramatic.” “In your opinion. In mine, I don’t know. Something’s the matter with me.” “Nothing’s the matter with you except that you’re having a panic attack mixed with a nasty spell of sadness because success isn’t coming to you as fast as we wish it would. You know shit gets to me too. You helped me keep my cool while I mustered through Veterinary school.” “Maybe that’s true. But… Ah, you just do things better than I do.” “No. That’s not true. And that’s not nice to say that to yourself. I wish you didn’t feel that way! What happened to my lovely optimist? And by the way, of course I still think your hot And find your naked body sexy and sacred. Do you still like my thighs? My tummy.” you then asked. “I love them both and your pussy’s still yummy.” I smiled. “I don’t ever want to take you for granted,” I said. “My love for you is planted in the depths of my brain. I’m so fucking fond of you and attached to...
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