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Lemon-Cherry Popsicles
She is unpredictable.
Within one hour she
can tell you about how
the weather is far too
unbearably cold for her
liking and be a**-naked
in a tub full of ice water,
with a lemon-cherry Popsicle
and a collection of Thoreau’s
essays sprawled out on the
tiled bathroom floor.
I think the reason multivariate calculus makes me shake more than a nursing home resident is because I cheated on a math test in third grade and never told anyone until right now,
she confessed to me one
afternoon while I was
marinating in textbooks.
I hate the city, and the snow, and the sea,
she announced to me from
the backseat of her brother’s
car. What do you like? I asked her.
I only ever know what I don’t like,
she said. Her temper can’t
hold with me, because
I ask stupid questions,
drive incredibly slowly,
and remind her to
take her medicine. I can’t
forgive her because she’s
erratic and she can’t forgive
me because I’m unbearably
systematic.
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