You’ve given up on the Coast Guard ever finding the island.
He or she possesses all the qualities you arbitrarily decided were desirable when you were like eleven years old.
She takes off her glasses and suddenly you want to fuck her more than you don’t care about poetry.
The spiders that hatch out of your face in your sleep instantly rush into his mouth.
There’s never an awkward silence when you’re together– instead there’s an ominous, almost inaudible buzz, as though hornets are rallying in the distance.
When you ask, “Do you think we’re soul mates?” he puts down his guitar and takes your face in his hands and delivers a forty minute rambling lecture that basically boils down to “yes.”
Instead of feeling the need to constantly express or seek apologies from one another, you keep a tank full of rat snakes on your coffee table and feed them live mice daily.
At some point you realize you’re not kidnapping drifters and bringing them home to watch the two of you fuck… you’re bringing them home to watch you make love.
You’re an aging neurotic and she’s a red-headed ingénue who loves jazz and quotes Schopenhauer.
You’re an unorthodox cop, she’s a no-nonsense DA, and your conservative Indian parents have reached an agreement.
He’s single and you’re 35.