there’s not a lot that i want to do in a day,
but i do, you know, want to do something with you,
but not like that,
or that,
i don’t think we’re thinking about the same thing,
maybe we should just sleep on it and circle back
to this tomorrow,
perhaps it will be better then
the room grows quiet,
a melancholy song skips on the record player
that you bought me for my thirtieth birthday last year
when i was going through a hipster phase,
which i’ve said i’m sorry about,
but i still like the music playing in the background,
even when it sounds discordant and lacks melody
waiting outside in incomplete darkness,
for my wife to tell me to come back in,
what are you doing out there?
it’s time to go to bed,
or to watch a movie,
or to read a book,
which is when I realize that is what our code was back in college for coitus so no one knew what we were talking about,
and so I go back inside
to tell my wife, and to partially confess,
that she is a nerd and that’s okay
Fred Aiken Writing 