Love. What is that mysterious thing called love, that people chase and ache and cry and die over? It's more elusive than 'honour'. Honour can be obtained from merely holding a place on the social ladder, but love... Love is a fish of an entirely different feather.

They say that the first anniversary is the paper anniversary, so here is my gift of paper, to you.

I'm watching you sleep, and I'm thinking about the spate of letter-writing we did when we were first trying to figure out how we fit together... The light outside is a strange combination of the streetlight's glow and the moon, and it's picking out the curve of your ear, your cheek, your shoulder and hip.

It's almost time to make the second trip home for this year, so we'll have to dig our Fancy Clothes out of the closet and put ourselves back in. This bothers me, but I can't decide what to do about it.

On one hand, it's only for a while, and only when we're out in public.

On another hand, I still have this desire to make my parents happy, to have them be pleased with who I am now, and to like you.

On a third hand (must be one of yours), it's kind of fun to get away with having everyone thinking you're a woman, but it's not how I want to spend the entirety of our future visits.

We're very used to acting as normal as we ever get in almost every other place we go, and we never have to explain or justify it to anyone. I don't want to have to do that with my parents, but if I don't and they either figure it out or we slip and reveal all...

I don't want to get cold stares from everyone except Nomi, and 'Dazzo's not going to be there for another couple of years so we don't have to think about -him-.

I started writing, intending this to be a meditation on how much you've contributed to my life over this past year, and here I go worrying about my family. I think I can get back to my point... What was the word I wanted? Oh, yes.

Grateful.

I am -so- grateful that you've been around for me, that you stayed through lost packages and spilled coffee and breakfast (and lunch, and brunch, and dinner, and snacks...) in bed and having to sleep in seperate rooms in those backwards but important little towns and last weekend.

How do I express something like that? I've tried, and I'm sure you know, you can feel it the way we seem to be able to feel so much...

I love -you-. You. youyouyou. Neetlemyre J. Knickerbocker-Jones (esquire). Neetlemyre J. Jones, III. Neets. Kitten. -You-.

You and you alone. Your smile, the way you make me slow down and look at things more than once, just...everything that makes you Neets.

There, I -think- I've gotten all of the mush out of my system... And the worry. Maybe -now- I can think clearly. Then again, it -is- kind of cold, out here. And you look rather lonely, all curled up in the corner of the bed like that.

He lay there, the spill of his hair silvered by moonlight, face relaxed and sweetened by the respite of sleep...

Nah.

The moonlight poured through the curtains and lay in liquescent ingots on the bedclothes, the pillowcases, splashes across his hair...

Not quite. (Switched tenses, too...)

 

Once upon a time, there was a man. This man was a slightly odd man, as he did not allow anyone to tell him that he was

Definately not.

 

(Continued -->)