I’ll scoff at your shoelaces, so you’ll say my hair resembles an electrified Chihuahua. I’ll liken your voice to an unwell porpoise; then you’ll remind me I can’t long divide. I’ll say you’re a salty bootlicker, but you’ll say you hated me first.
We won’t speak for days.
Soon, we’ll collide around a corner. We’ll shove each other with disdain. Then we’ll say we’re sorry, over and over, as our arms grasp so tightly around each other’s frames that I can barely find the air to whisper in your ear that your breath smells like a stale Reuben sandwich.