Moving

You had identical faces during fights and during sex. Fighting in the stairwell, I knew we were going to fuck at the top. Why did I have to act like an asshole to get you back? Why did it work?

At brunch in a packed diner in Williamsburg we decided to leave together. Again. You had a job offer in at the UN in Quito, and I had nothing, but it was better than a paycheck that disappeared into rent and insurance and a job teaching in the ghetto.
You bought me a ticket and we moved to Quito like painting over rotten drywall. Patching up what should have been cut out and replaced. Instead we rented an apartment in Guapulo and danced salsa in the kitchen, killing time until the cave-in.