Most everything she said was torn from the day’s headlines –
but I had no idea what headlines were, having grown up on a media-free planet
torn from the pages of a science fiction dime novel called “The Psychodroids.”
But the upshot was the same: I had no idea what she was talking about.
This created a rift, but only conversationally. Physically
we were often mistaken for a large, greasy soft pretzel, as we practiced our
filthy lovemaking in public: apartment steps, empty basketball courts in frozen
winter, with candy wrappers locked against chain link, stuck there until
spring, or until a wispy gust allowed them to sail into the water supply.
Further proof that quality conversation need not determine
the future of a relationship is requested. Anecdotal evidence will not be
considered unless submitted by committee.
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