Alison, looking at other women makes me sad. They all have mouths that are too big, smiles that want to swallow my face, chew me down to the stubs of my toes. They will not be as kind - they frown when I say the word “bungalow”, they think glow-in-the-dark stars are for children. They have big dogs that do not like me, or anyone else, and shed until my pants are speckled gray, or black, or tan. Their parents will not cook me dinner. Their brothers will not laugh when I swear at the top of my lungs.

Alison, I keep getting sick. My body knows something has changed. Women in college who play video games do not email me back, teachers in Reading who like to drink are pursuing other relationships. People at work do not know any of the albums I listen to, any of the books I’ve read. I let the world happen around me as I fix periods and em-dashes, figures and tables, Italian and Greek versions of our complicated and beautiful language. I let them all go to lunch, by themselves, and then I follow suit.

Alison, I want you to be happy, but I don’t want to know about it. I want you to be miserable and need to talk to me about it. I want you to have sex with other men and not enjoy it; to look across the table into someone’s eyes and want to throw them down on the floor; I want you to dance naked and smile at yourself in the mirror and blush as men hand you roses and not worry about your hair and wonder what I’m doing, just this second, right now.

I want you to knock on my door every night, about 11. I will let you in without a word. I will watch you wash your face and brush your teeth, and then I will follow suit. You will take my clothes off, I will take off yours, and we will sleep together, bare and instantly unconscious. In the morning, you will be gone, or I will. The only constant will be the silence. The only constant will be that one of us will always wake up alone.