We�d be in trouble, you and me.

I can�t stand one more minute of you puttering about in your Styx t-shirt, smiley-face boxers and those damned egalitarian fleece socks with a faux Navajo print. You�re so earnest it�s backing me into a corner.

Yesterday was a perfectly lazy fall day, driving around in with the windows down, listening to the Jayhawks croonTwo Angels. But in the drive-thru, you insisted upon crisp bacon on your sandwich, crisp not limp, and the dissonance overpowered me.

Frozen in an acute attack of grief, I slipped again into myself. The cashier�s hand grazed mine. His fingertips, tender and soft, seemed to pause on the outside of my left pinky for an unbearably long time. But then they retreated, without satisfaction. He was laughing, open-mouthed, with gusto akin to nothing I remember feeling.

We are in trouble, you and me.