July 08, 2005

We went to visit Anna and Mike last night just as a storm gathered overhead. Unfortunately, the rain never came. Instead of ripping off our clothes and dancing naked in Anna’s backyard like the savages we are, the four of us sat down in the kitchen, lit candles, and ate a civilized dinner. Chicken. Corn. Mushrooms. Our faces were smeared with grease and joy; we laughed.

Anna’s giggles rival my own squeals of delight. “I usually warn people about his laughter before we meet someone,” Laura said. “‘You will hear and see certain things, certain awful things,’ I say.”

“We are not human,” I said.

We had coffee on Anna’s ugly couches, me wrapped in Laura’s arms. I was just about to doze off, my belly full of food and wine, when the cat came in the living room, stared at us coolly, and then proceeded to puke on the floor while running in circles (as to cover the most area).

Nothing like puke to get everyone animated. I was suddenly on my feet trying to let the cat outside; Anna was cleaning furiously; Mike was flushing things down the toilet. Once everything settled down, we went out into the yard to talk about amputations.

Laura is dirty. Because we were awake and full of aggression, we started screaming at each other in the night. She got angry and wanted to leave. I ambushed her in the dark, and somehow we ended up on the bathroom floor groping and whispering apologies. “You’re an asshole,” I said in the most endearing way imaginable.

We drove home late in the night, hands in each other’s pants. Before stopping on my driveway, she pulled the car to the side of the road for naked and wonderful embraces. Making up is the best part of fighthing.