down the hallway leading to her room. He watched her leave and could almost smell grape perfume despite the fact she hated anything scented.
**~~**
They didn't speak for four days. It wasn't really all that unusual and the longer he thought about it, sitting on the threadbare puke-orange love seat picked up from a drunken flea market binge spending trip, he realized he shouldn't be upset at all.
"You know, the longest time we went without talking was seven and a half days," he told her, nodding his head to confirm it. She crossed her legs and shifted her weight in the blue recliner without acknowledging him.
"And every time," he reminded her, "you ask if I think you're crazy." He leaned forward and tried to smile where she could see him. "I don't think you're crazy at all. This is perfect. Look at us! We have contrastingly colored living room furniture and an old black-and-white TV screen. We're the perfect old couple."
"Not all that old," he heard her mutter and her face flushed when she realized she'd spoken aloud.
Feeling his face break into a grin, Martin tried to hide his smile by coughing into the crook of his elbow and raced to the kitchen to fetch her a glass of water. She gulped it down and her voice sounded less cracked after four days of silence. Watching her run a finger around the wet rim, he felt like his entire body had floated free into a million little cubes to float around the water-stained ceiling like a Picasso painting. He wouldn't admit it aloud. It scared him to death that one day she might stop talking and never start again.
"When did you decide you wanted to be a girl?" She asked him, still watching the shopping channel on the TV with the volume off.
Martin leaned back and traced his fingers across the couch's worn pattern from being sat on for too long by strangers he'd never met, which usually covered all strangers. He felt little tingles of anxiety racing along his legs and had no idea what it even meant.
"I don't know. I'm not really sure what I am anymore. But I do think it would be nice, what
**~~**
They didn't speak for four days. It wasn't really all that unusual and the longer he thought about it, sitting on the threadbare puke-orange love seat picked up from a drunken flea market binge spending trip, he realized he shouldn't be upset at all.
"You know, the longest time we went without talking was seven and a half days," he told her, nodding his head to confirm it. She crossed her legs and shifted her weight in the blue recliner without acknowledging him.
"And every time," he reminded her, "you ask if I think you're crazy." He leaned forward and tried to smile where she could see him. "I don't think you're crazy at all. This is perfect. Look at us! We have contrastingly colored living room furniture and an old black-and-white TV screen. We're the perfect old couple."
"Not all that old," he heard her mutter and her face flushed when she realized she'd spoken aloud.
Feeling his face break into a grin, Martin tried to hide his smile by coughing into the crook of his elbow and raced to the kitchen to fetch her a glass of water. She gulped it down and her voice sounded less cracked after four days of silence. Watching her run a finger around the wet rim, he felt like his entire body had floated free into a million little cubes to float around the water-stained ceiling like a Picasso painting. He wouldn't admit it aloud. It scared him to death that one day she might stop talking and never start again.
"When did you decide you wanted to be a girl?" She asked him, still watching the shopping channel on the TV with the volume off.
Martin leaned back and traced his fingers across the couch's worn pattern from being sat on for too long by strangers he'd never met, which usually covered all strangers. He felt little tingles of anxiety racing along his legs and had no idea what it even meant.
"I don't know. I'm not really sure what I am anymore. But I do think it would be nice, what
