I have a simple life. I have a tiny apartment and a straightforward job. Yet somehow this little life requires eleven keys. Eleven. Plus two to my parents’ house that I think are in the cabinet over my stove. And I used to have the three to David’s. So there were sixteen, all in all.
But one of mine is funny; I’ve never seen one like it. It’s uncopy-able as far as I can tell. I ask whenever I’m in a hardware store, never with any luck.
I used to call it the breakup key. I told David that one day he’d come over and my door would be locked with both locks and that would be it. He’d know.
With Cooper, it was a joke he’d make.
“You don’t like puppies?” I’d demand.
“I like puppies. With a little salt and pepper. . . .”
I told him that one day he’d say it, and I’d just turn and walk away from him and it would be over. All the better if it happened in the Park, because then we could both just walk home.
That’s not the way either of those stories ended. They were jokes. They just weren’t funny.
I’m a cynic. A cynic with an escape plan. Looking for the problem with this one.