He pushes me to answer, wants to hear my voice wrap meaning around his fragile idea. Wants words to act like glue and bandage. I don’t respond, not ready yet, so he pushes me again. “What is love? Put it in your own words, come on. You’re the book worm, you’ve read enough to have an idea. We’re in love, aren’t we” (a statement), “…so how would you define it?” The room does a cool trick where it goes small and big at the same time. Dizzy.CONTINUE READING