He talks to himself in the kitchen and I imagine from where I am sitting on his couch, that I am in our apartment, listening to him talk to himself in our kitchen. His chatter is comforting. As I sit with my coffee, it becomes hard to tell the difference between caffeine arrhythmia and a galloping heart. When he sits down I am smiling at him and he asks me why I'm smiling. I tell him it's because I like listening to him talking to himself. I want to tell him that I have begun to imagine him part of some alternate ending where we live together. In my head we already own a spider plant that needs watering on top of the microwave, dust-bunnies beneath the couch and a shoe storage problem. In my head he is running the machinations of his day, keeping pace with his self-talking, and I am as content with that soundtrack as I would be on a cliff by the sea where I'm from.
Instead, I find ways to show him he is not so strange, or that strangeness is human, or that it is not a flaw but a special asset, something that makes him valuable or unique. I like to find examples of this to validate his existence. I wonder sometimes if his existence validates my own.
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