2006-10-30 || 11:49 p.m.

|| end prologue. ||

because everyone keeps cocking their head and asking how we're doing and because they get a funny look in their eye when they say "you're getting mar-ried" and because finally, after all these months, he felt it enough to upend a suitcase whose zipper failed him (taking it as a sign but then pushing it away) and storm out until he regained his composure,

he took a bath and i sat on the mat and read him poetry.

in 1997 we were in love. he filmed underlit stop-action sequences in the bathroom of the victorian flat. i wrote stories about women who turned into fish and needed to take long baths in a clawfoot bathtub exactly like the one in that bathroom to sustain themselves. i read to him then, too, maybe even the same poems. i did this tonight ( ) ) as punctuation:

( )

we fly to california tomorrow. we will look out the window and unfasten our seatbelts. i will exhale audibly and forget the poems, and he will hold my hand while i carry the suitcase holding all the things that start the next part: "

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