a love story: on infliction
Read My Love Songs for the backstory.
We have a beautiful life. Grandma makes my tuna sandwiches and asks me over for lunch. Seth gets paid to play guitar at church. I can beat your preacher at Bible Trivia. We’re the ones you call to do the right thing, the ones to help you through your hard time.
Seth makes near perfect grades and friends he will love forever. Seth learns to sing falsetto with Nora Jones, intertwining the intellectual with the visceral in the study of Law.
And he is sad the whole time.
We are beautiful expectations, perpetuating the very sickness that drove us to the Love Shack. We look good. Surely it will catch on. Surely this thing is going to click right when we do our next big thing.
I have a constant fever, unexplainable pain and swelling, and the need for countless tests. It is the kind of sick no one can name. We imagine all negatives as false. Everything feels suspicious.
We have secret sins, and our spirits wallow. We are self-inflicted.
And if we love, we love, but we are perfect enemies, the church with an immunity disorder – he in an office chair and I in the bed at dusk.