Eight years


Eight years ago today, I was cleaning my apartment, in anticipation that Sam was going to break up with me, and wouldn’t it be better to wallow in a tidy space? And what else is one supposed to think when one’s boyfriend says we need to talk? He was busy cleaning his face of his beard, as he felt it more appropriate to propose without facial hair. It is probably an understatement to say I was surprised at what came out of his mouth when he arrived at my apartment. So much so that I wasn’t really in a position to answer just yet.

Eight years ago tomorrow, I said yes.


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