mitochondria

"What we say about ourselves has nothing to do with what's true," I said.  "It has to do with what people told us about ourselves."  We'd mentioned a friend with dyslexia who says they're a horrible writer.

"Is it raining?" I asked.

"I don't know--let me check my phone," he said, and we laughed.

He opened the door to look.  I thought about windows and Windows.  "No--let's go for a bike ride right now," he said.

I was still eating my oatmeal.  I thought the chia seeds would fluff up a bit.  "I'm going to wear my mitochondria dress.  What do you think?  I think the world will explode with awesomeness," I said.

I wanted a cereal box to make blanks for atcs, and he handed one to me slightly wet from his clean hands.  "You got water on it," I said, wiping the water from the slightly glossy cardstock.

"Oh, sorry," he said.

"It's ok.  Water isn't the friend of paper," I said.  "Or they want to be friends, but it's not going to work out."  I thought of my whole life.  This really amazing priceless book--I think only a few were made--and a little drop of water....o god.  I must change the subject.

We wanted to mark our locks so we could tell them apart--the right key for the right lock.  I looked for nailpolish and found the place it used to be, a shiny metallic pink makeup bag--empty.  I gave it all to my mom, years ago, when I decided never to paint my nails again.

Ming said zipties, colorful zipties.  I said ok.  Nailpolish is only a dollar at the dollar store.  "When the apocalypse ends, we can go to the dollar store and get some."

"When the apocalypse ends?" Ming asked.

"If it ends," I corrected myself.

"If the apocalypse ends, we won't need bike locks," he said.

"Because we'll be dead?" I asked.

"Because..."

"Oh, anarchist fantasy?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"Still need bike locks," I said.  "There are still bike thieves in the anarchist fantasy."

He conceded--I could be right.  But I like the way you think, my darling.