But she likes the mismatched socks. She likes to point
at the dog and smile. He likes the way her legs stay
pressed together naked; when she splits them for a cross
across a knee it’s all the more important. It’s the way she shoots
her panties like a rubber-band. That siren-call smile he sports draws her in as well.
Mutual is the way this plot flips. He has the beard that refuses
to be soft. She has the actions that guys hold aloft, idealize, over-
indulge in fantasy lands; he doesn’t
have time for that. Too busy is what
the writing keeps him. The camera holds her. They fit like puzzle
piece perfection but the boxes aren’t the same. Who cares?
And where did the train take them then? She likes sex in the boxcar,
and so does he, but he won’t let it. She likes pretzels of all kinds.
She likes sliding glass doors. He liked the way she’d pick a moment and
grab his hand and flail a little as they walked, keeping pace with his
bigger steps, reading all the storefront signs out loud, just in case.