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Tour
"I don’t want a tour: I want you," she said, and then she paused, and then reflected, and then said, "Ok, that sounded wrong. I’m sorry. "I’m jut sick and tired of this half-assed attempt at relationships, you know? It’s not just that—it’s everything, it’s life in general. It’s the fact that the people across the street don’t even know my name and, hell, I don’t know theirs either because they moved in last month and they’ll be gone again in a few more. "It’s like I don’t know anyone now. "I don’t want a tour, some shining overview, some thirty-second glimpse where all I see are fleshly vacuumed carpets and no dishes in the sink. "Stay up all night with me and tell me who you are. Fuck me, but at least take me to your bed and in the morning wear some grungy old t-shirt with some college’s name on it, a college that would’ve been really great, real perfect if you had just’ve gotten in. I don’t want nice restaurants and French wine, I want cold cereal and day old coffee because I’m beginning to worry that one night, when I was sleeping, someone fucking whitewashed the whole world and got rid of the real things, the nasty things, the important things. "No, sir. No thank you, sir. I don’t want a goddamned tour—I want you." |
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Tour
9.17.03 231 words |