“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.


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SonnyVsDan said...

i thought at first he just had some fuschia jocks, which could be worse.

i like that you defended him for himself (and from himself)

Mae December said...

i like that too.