The Space Without a Name

“What aren’t you getting out of this?” she asked.

“I’m not getting to do what I want,” he said.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“Think,” he answered.

“You can,” she said, “if you want; just don’t forget that I’m here.”

“I do,” he answered, “forget that you are here when I think, because it takes all my attention, which is one reason I do it. I forget, to remember.”

“But in between the forgetting,” she said, “all I ask is that you remember me sometimes.”

“I can try to do that,” he said. “What about you? What aren’t you getting out of this?” he asked her.

“I’m losing me,” she said, “I’m not getting me or you out of this.”

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

“I want to do everything,” she said, “with you.”

“That doesn’t seem possible he said, or even healthy.”

“I know,” she said, “and so I am really wanting to do everything good and meaningful and lovely in life with you and without you, and to know when it’s best one and when best the other.”

“What is this space called?” he asked.

“What space?” she replied.

“The space where we say what we really want and need to say, honestly, so that we can figure out us, and then and why,” he said.

“It doesn’t have a name,” she said.

“Let’s name it,” he said, “so we can come here again.


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