when he and I were first together, having moved across a continent after what could hardly be considered a courtship, and if it could have been, after the briefest of courtships, or wooing and maybe. after almost no time at all.
after a particular morning in the kitchen in fox point, asking him what do you want to hear, (holding up a cassette, or the radio, or another cassette) and hearing him say: come with me to vancouver
and not thinking quickly enough or thinking as quickly as needed given the givens, saying not one thing or another and so saying nothing, and so we did
and then, later, early days, but after this particular day, in vancouver, an argument. several. or just the one, replayed, repeated, reenacted more than once, more than many times. and always, during it, during the anger and the shouting and the ohdeargodreally? the constant background music of the pull-up pants advert:
I’m a big kid look what I can do, I can wear big kid pants, too.
over and over and over again.
every single time
arguing is bad. ever since, trying to use my words differently, to not invoke the ire of song gods and their demon spawn, the jingle people.
I’m a big kid now.