I’m curled into my new lady-friend on the couch. After two months of the exhaustive weekend shuffle between sleeplessness at her apartment and mine--a shuffle from which I still occasionally wake up unsure of where I am, disoriented and reaching for phantom light switches from the other apartment--amid this chaos girlfriend still seems premature. We exist in that space between intimacy and strangeness. I know the pitch of her voice when she’s trying hide her rising anxiety, but I only learned two weeks ago her legal first name. It still feels weird on my tongue.
