When I open the fridge door, the need to get groceries hits me. It’s 2 pm and Chris is still sleeping. I don’t know why I found the idea of giving myself a tattoo on the bottom of my back so great: there’s nothing great about suffering this way. I have the impression that I’ve been gouging my skin with acid.
I opted for baggy jeans and a hoodie. With a backpack on my shoulder, I decided to go to the bank hoping that Chris will be awake when I get back.
I can’t figure it out. It’s not my habit to get people to confide; I grew up with the concept that “the less you say, the better” All I have been able to understand is that his work, the one that gives him these wounds and bruises, is a sensitive subject between us. I guess he thinks he’s not good enough for me, whereas on my side I don’t
