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June 1, 2010 | Fiction

489 Points

Andrew Borgstrom

489 Points photo

I bought secondhand hunting attire that I only wore around the house. You corrected me when I called our apartment a house. We howled until we were gender tired. You howled when you stubbed your toe on my rearrangement of the living room. You corrected me when I called a corner a room. I called you my speech pathologist instead of my girlfriend. We had that one thing in common. You kept the windows open year round. I kept upgrading the laundry hamper. The stairs we stepped to the apartment that I called our house. The gun rack I bought at a yard sale to match the hunting attire. The cost of my constant home décor. I wondered if the stairs we stepped to our apartment were sinking. You constantly ate submarine sandwiches. You asked me to return your opinions. The cost of cage-free eggs and gluten-free waffles. I refused to return your opinions by calling them facts. You never called me a gentleman. The day you called our landlord. We would watch the birds I called by the wrong names. We would open a checking account in both our names. I would feel comfortable purchasing organic produce and tampons. You would be willing to purchase secondhand hunting regalia. I would memorize the words partially hydrogenated and high fructose. You would memorize the names of the birds I would never kill. The day you brought home oil-based cheese. The ingredients I tried memorizing for the confrontation we never had. We could finally fit all our clothes in the laundry hamper. I stared at the steps.

image: Aaron Burch


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