There's so much about us that shouldn’t work. One side of your mouth tilts upward and my left eyelid is slightly lower than the other. Your toothbrush has sharp bitemarks and mine’s bristles are grinded to a curl. When I put my head on the table you think I'm being funny. When you laughed I thought that you wanted me to call you that name. You worship tan lines and I wear all black to the beach. 

When we went to an exhibit, because I asked and you wanted to go, not because you had to, we stood side by side in front of the painting that spoke to us. It’s kind of weird that we chose the same painting. Maybe after being around each other for so long we began to merge preferences and our psyches collided. Or maybe you chose the piece that you thought I would like the most. Did you do it because you wanted to stay close to the smell of my hair or were you afraid of conflict that you could potentially ensue? Or did you not feel like thinking too hard at that moment? And as we were exchanging short, quiet dialogue: “I like that” “No, I for sure get that” “That was definitely a choice”, I found that spark I tend to lose with everyone– the kernel of similarity. I can read the book you’re writing currently as you’re finding the next string of words. And your book starts to write about my book; we exchange words and paragraphs and potentially pages, liking each other’s book so much that we stop obsessing over our own. We left the exhibit smiling and a little bit loopy.

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