“I’m helping my boyfriend move.”
This sentence kept rattling around in my head as I packed his closet and helped take apart his bed.
“I’m helping my boyfriend move. I have a boyfriend. We do important things together. Someday, we could look back and say, 'Remember that place in Park Slope?'”
Ugh. Ok, that was too far. Anyway. . . .
I helped him move the clothes from his chest into a box. The last thing out was a pair of fuchsia panties.
He seemed embarrassed, but I didn't really mind.
“Well, I have. . . .”
“It’s like girls with boys’ t shirts.”
“Yes. It’s like that.”
Except I hope he never wears his artifacts of lost relationships.