In the last week I’ve taken mental snapshots on how clichéd P Bonez and I have become. The whole newly-wed game of finding the cute apartment that requires the special TLC only a fresh young couple could give. The sort of apartment that a newlywed couple gets all kinds of excited about, picking out a shade of green that looked khaki but is more lime. At 28 and counting, we’re still young enough to forget that paint ruins a good pair of shoes or your work pants, but adult enough to buy a hammer and cover the wooden table with newspapers.
Watch out world, Man-boy and Women-girl have been unleashed into the world and we’ve got the bands around our fingers to prove it.
I’ve been glued inside my brown corduoroy’s all week. Too cold to take them off for a good wash. The rain has been sliding down the windows and I’ve already forgotten that I live in the desert. Instead, I am transported to memories of Germany as a child. My goulashes swishing through rain puddles and that damp smell of rainy freshness. Lightly shivering, my small hand is warm inside the palm of my fathers protective paw. The rain is bouncing off of his London fog raincoat.
I slipped out of my cordouroy’s to play out yet another clichéd newlywed scene: giving hairy husband a haircut in my wife beater and black socks to protect me from the winter of the tiles in the bathroom. He laughs at me as my lower lip quivers and jerks everytime I snip a strand of his hair as he is beginning to look more and more like a gorilla from the stray hairs falling on his thighs and chest. I finish the job, put my courds back on and let him clean his follicles. I was too nervous cutting his hair and need to relax.
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