My Dear Eugene Levy.
Some funny guys fill the air with the high pitched whine of words and words and words. Not you.
Your nonsense is as slow to emerge as thick hair drying on a winter evening. It feels to me like each ridiculous truth that spills from your lips has been wet, washed, dried and coiffed, then dirty again more than once before it comes out. And when it does at last slide out, I am sure that everything is right. No matter what invisible pressure changes your face and mine, we are lovely and safe.
My ears seem perfectly shaped for your words although I imagine the back of your head is a wall, built for mine. Which is why this is not the marriage proposal I first intended.
Your years of practice convince me that my self and yours are independent, but not separate, simply parts of a natural process or a volleyball team. We are a noun that is made up of many verbs. You and me and the human family, I guess.
None of us is perfect, my eyebrows grow together as well. We're all a little odd and that's ok with you.
It's ok with me, too.
I'll meet you there in the quiet bathroom where the heat from the hairdryer always does its job eventually, and we will not consider the discomfort of this life of hair loss.
