Nabusimake

He always wakes up at the wrong hours, as if time were not a matter pertaining to him. Trapped in a bedroom with wooden floors by his own accord, he sings to himself.

He talks about TV as though he were encountering it for the first time in his life, and I love the fascination coming out of his pretty voice when he describes such a boring everyday thing. Enormously wide-eyed, he blushes when he hears my stupid jokes—but then he surpasses them, causing me to twitch my mouth in that silly bewildered face he finds so much fun to watch.

Our life together is a one-page story of dances through frozen food aisles, lost glasses, and strange findings of coins.

And yet, I’m starting to miss him.

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