I sat on the gray suede couch, fiddling with an iPod – was it hers or mine? She was standing over the mess of a counter. A pot of boiling water, pasta in hand ready to drop. Eggs, bacon, cream.
There was a strand of hair in my bowl.
We ate and left the plates strewn on the kitchen table. I went back to the couch. The song that came up was Expatriate – The Spaces Between. I told her to listen. “It’s a great song.” So then I gave her one-half of the earphones. She leaned closer. We kissed.
Or did this happen before we ate? I think it was when the pasta was boiling.
I had my hands pressed against her neck. She’s got really short hair, blonde. The song was still playing in both our ears. I wondered: how the fuck did I end up with you. You’re a Libra. It’s not written in the fucking stars. Our signs aren’t compatible. When are we going to end? I messed up your hair. You’ve got the softest sighs.