The Tuxedo Archives

Article Title

f People Were Seasons


He and I are sitting in the middle of my staircase, squished together on the same step, our limbs overflowing and dangling off the edges. We have our respective beverages in hand—his beer and my glass of red wine—facing each other with our legs bent, contently intertwined. We already touched base on our weapons of choice for the zombie apocalypse, the sports and instruments and dreams we gave up on in high school, and whether our day was more like The Weeknd’s Can’t Feel My Face or Fetty Wap’s Trap Queen. Now, we’re brainstorming names for the future Alaskan husky he wants for his fiftieth birthday and I have a strong feeling he’s about to screw up the sleeping schedule I worked so hard to fix. We’re laughing in two-part harmonies and I’m clutching onto my stomach so hard, I almost spill wine on his khakis. Then, I catch myself before I float too far and lower myself back down to ground. For a moment, I look at the world through my kitchen window and use it as my anchor.


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