Though we both own full-size beds, his seems wider than mine as I stack and spread my books across the entire width of his mattress. Some books are open, some books have folded page corners, some are bookmarked by articles with unintelligible notes in the margins.
I sit in the top back corner hammering away at my computer, rotating from book to book to article to writing again, desperate to achieve a degree of coherence and continuity in this argumentative mess. I know he’s watching the Celtics game because every few minutes he yells at the TV and promptly apologizes for the disruption, neither of which really register because I’m chin-deep in thesis writing and approaching my April due date.
“Hey,” he puts his hand on my bare knee. I look up from my screen and he smiles. “I asked if you were hungry.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear you. But no, I’m fine, thanks.”
“Are you sure? Because I can heat up the chicken from last night or make you something new.”
“You’re sweet to offer, but I’m really okay,” I say and resume typing.
He picks my hands up off the keyboard and asks one more time. “Are you positive you don’t want me to make you something to eat?”
I chuckle at his persistence and say, “Yes, I’m absolutely positive. Thank you anyway.”
He kisses my forehead and begins folding a clean t-shirt while my fingers punch the keys of my MacBook.
“I only ask because you’ve been gnawing at your collar all morning.”
And before I can be offended by this animalistic word, “gnawing,” I look down at my white Iowa Western t-shirt where my central incisors have chewed a hole clean through my collar.
“Piss.”
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