We are driving again. We are arguing about pronouns, if that’s even what they are called, and I am using it anecdotally to hate on Spanish, the idiocy of attributing gender to inanimate objects, she is holding this bully fight in her mind like a school teacher might a real brawl, without malice, detached from outcome at least as far as I am concerned, and I, the bully recognize none of it though I see it, am not cowed, will not comply, my own heart my god, my own anger is my intellect, I swerve. Her hand goes up for a moment and she stiffens whether because of the swerve or anticipating disaster. My arguments have deteriorated (over the last few years) into an amalgam of civility, a few articulate kill shot attempts with figurative lance and then more passive coexistence and a few long stares. Who needs a good point anymore?
It’s Vegas for me. I tell her I dream of a bed made of tits. She smirks half loving the idea herself. I tell her in my dream, though it was not a dream it was an idea. I get angry before I start. I stop talking about the idea.
“that’s fucking bullshit” I scream. The car reacts more than she does. "the whole world shits on things that are not dreams, if I was to tell you that I had a dream you would be all, oh... well it’s not a fucking dream, it means more, well maybe not but it’s important too”
“whats your idea” Kay asks me.
“My idea is that I am at a grocery store in the donut section and I am buying these big, soft, perfect tits… I fill my fucking bag… (I look at her) its an odd number, its five…” we drive for a while.
She thinks about what I am saying or looks like it.
“I wish I could read your mind and judge you for it” I say. She spits laughter and then we are both laughing, I am laughing, banging my fist on the steering wheel to break it.
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