The evening yawns and pushes at the walls, and I’m sitting at the foot of the bed pretending to  fiddle with the bronze-plait buckle on my shoe, listening to you tell me again and again the story about your mate Ramon, from Spain, and his bird Martha. How they met, and wear matching sweaters on Christmas over gingerbread and tinseled gifts, and how you claim you want that too, except that you don’t. Sweaters are meant to keep children warm on wet winter days, you said last year. Really I’m just hoping that you’ll stop chatting and fidgeting with your sleeve cuff long enough to see my silence over my unzipped dress back I’ve purposefully left undone, hoping that you’ll sprint over to zip me up like you sprinted across the train station last December when we flew to the beaches of Montenegro and Martha came to greet us at the gate and chauffeur us to their manse. Ramon wasn’t with her at the airport that day. You feigned sad to hear that he was delayed on a business trip, and would be home in a day or two if the weather let up in Oslo, but really it was just the advantage you’d been waiting for. 

I didn’t know it at the time. I was a fool. But you were in love with Martha long before that. Fuck, you’re still hot for her now. 

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