She Doesn’t Know Where Her Towel Is

You said, do you love me or not.
I said, define “love.”
You said, do you love me or not.
I said, you don’t understand. I have too many words on the subject.
I’m afraid you wouldn’t care and you might get pissed off.
You said, but do you love me or not.
I said, sh-sh-sh. Can’t you see? I don’t know where my towel is.
You said, it should not be this hard to know.
I said, the love animals want to pet each other, and if we could take them out of us and set them on the table over there, the sex would pretty much continue to have itself. But our persons, empty of the naked and slippery love animals, would hate each other.
You said, so you don’t love me.
I said, birdie, please. I’m here, aren’t I.
You said, so you don’t like me as a person.
I said, and this is precisely why.
You said, well that’s lovely to know.
I said, I told you I had many words on the subject, you wouldn’t care and you would get pissed off. You scan what I say for mentions of your name and discard the rest. I could be reciting the Magna Carta and you would have no idea what I was saying because your name doesn’t pop up. I always know when you stop tracking the conversation. Your face changes.
I said, oh God what did I just say. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
You said, wow. Wow.
I said, but if the love animals within don’t want to pet each other then you can sit your empty and perfectly sympathetic person bags together on the couch, and they can watch TV. They won’t pet each other. But they won’t beat each other up either. While the two love animals lower their body temperatures and go into anabiosis.
You said, you drive me up the wall.
I said, I told you I don’t have just one word.

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