#1

“So do you believe, that if we broke up, you’ll find someone else and everything would be the same?” you said.

We had been arguing over whether telepathy was logically possible.

We’d actually argued about telepathy three days before, and were now arguing about why we had an argument in the first place, which in turn, became an argument over my unwillingness to entertain ideas outside the tangible world beyond as a thought experiment.

And all that eventually branched into fate–you believed our relationship was fated, while I kept claiming chaos and the weight of decisions.

“No, I didn’t say that. Of course not.”

“So, you don’t think this was meant to be,” you said, pointing back and forth between us.

“Serendipitous, maybe.”

You smiled.

“Serendipity is a nice word,” you said.

“Yeah, it’s real pretty.”

I wanted to tell you all the reasons not to think what if, and to accept events as they came, to let things be, that there was so much in the world to hang onto that change a life actively, and that the less you asked what if, the more you could see what is.

I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated that you appreciated the sound of a word, and to list off every tiny decision we’d each made over the years that led to appreciating the sound of a word, and to appreciate who spoke it.

 

#2

You waited in the car while I ran into the gas station, came back out with a pack of cigs and sucking on the straw of a big gulp.

You asked for a sip when I got back in the car.

“I can feel my liver rolling its eyes inside me,” you said in between swallows. “But it’s so good.”

“I know.”

“Where’s the surgeon general warning on this shit?” you said, giving me back the big gulp.

“They give pop to children.” I took a long pull, felt little bubbles boogie on down my throat. “I mean, I give pop to children.”

“Me too.”

“What do you think is worse? One cigarette a day or one big gulp a day?”

You pulled back onto the street, squinting like you were giving the question serious thought.

“Probably the cigarette is worse,” you said.

“You think? A big gulp is like, four hundred calories. Your lungs will probably regenerate that one cig.”

“Maybe. It’s the toxins for me. But sugar is bad.” You nodded at the drink in my hand, a diet. “So is aspartame. Everything is bad.”

“Not you,” I said, putting my hand on your thigh. “You’re good.”

“Maybe toxic, though.”

“Addicting, either way.”

You smiled, put your hand on top of mine.

“What do you think would be harder to quit?” you said. “Me or cigarettes?”

I ran a quick round robin tournament through my head of everything I’d ever loved, that came down to you vs cigarettes in the finals, and started to squeeze the fresh pack of cigs in my hand, a grand/empty gesture to show how much I would destroy just for the opportunity to hold you one more night.

But before I could, you said, “No wait. Just kidding. Don’t answer that. You and cigs go way back.”

And I knew that I’d never have to destroy anything.

As long as I always chose you.