Because I Share It With Him

We talk about the cat a lot. It’s embarrassing, really. We have to verbally share with each other a detailed (and constant) report on what the cat is doing, might be thinking, may want, is experiencing physically, is capable of experiencing emotionally or remarkably did (you know, like tipping over a candle). Or we just exclaim at how adorable she is. It’s a lot of cat talk. If we accidentally included you in it and you thought we were annoying as fuck and decided never to meet us again, I would completely understand. I know, in my heart, that no one wants to hear about how much she likes to jump or how crooked her tail is. I know.

But I like the cat-talk, because I share it with him.

We know many details about each other’s digestive and excretory processes, and we discuss them regularly. We have a range of measurement of pee that goes from beautiful in colour to you’re in trouble for not drinking enough water. Him, he’s in trouble. I always drink enough water. We suggest meals based on the consistency of poop and sometimes we even talk about smell (but not my poop, mine smells like fairy dust and cinnamon). I choose to believe a lot of people in couples do this but just don’t talk about it. Maybe it seems a little disgusting that he texts me from the bathroom to share digestive details. Maybe.


Kassem Toubale, Nina Toubale, Léa Toubale, Pierrot Ducrot, Timothé Mercat, Yacine Toubale

But I like the digestion talk, because I share it with him.

Almost everyday I give him details of how I cleaned the house like I have returned to war. I tell it like a battle tale where I vanquished dust only to be confronted by a horde of soiled clothes and before i could fend off their attack the violent plants needed to be watered because it was the only way to keep them from ending my life, and then a surprise attack by the demons of the kitchen who demand I scrub them lest they attack me with the spell of ordour. He listens to my battle tales and laughs and makes them seem important. I complain about my battle wounds (because, yes, I do injure myself on a daily basis) and he gives me approval and encouragement to keep fighting. To keep attacking those messy closets and dusty shelves with my fists of fury. Maybe it seems a little boring that we our this excited by cleaning rituals and routines.

But I like our daily cleaning talk, because I share it with him.

Sometimes I tell him about the plants I want to grow or the ones i am growing, and it always devolves into a fantasy about the farm I want to have. One where I can make jam and pies everyday. He’d tend to the animals. We’d hire a creepy farm hand, and the kitty would run around in the apple orchard. We talk about all the nuts i want to grow; I want pecans, he’s never eaten fresh pecans about which I can’t even. Sometimes we discuss the herb garden I want and the bloody Mary’s I would make him with fresh tomato juice, I don’t know why I believe that people on farms are always drinking Bloody Mary’s. We talk about how quiet the night would be and how amazing the apple sauce would be. The milk would be fresh, the firewood would smell amazing, the coriander would never wilt, the chillies would be hot and rain would be quiet. Maybe our wildest fantasy is massively tame. Maybe.

Kassem Toubale, Nina Toubale, Léa Toubale, Pierrot Ducrot, Timothé Mercat, Yacine Toubale

But I like our fantasy farm, because I share it with him.

Sometimes we spend hours talking about red nailpolish and how many shades it has. Sometimes we discuss carrots. Sometimes it’s a chair we need to buy or a bank account that is almost empty. Sometimes I tell him stories of the usher at the grocery store as if he’s a character from a thriller. Sometimes we talk about world affairs as if we’re the ones who run it all. Sometimes we just create worlds to suit ourselves and our biased interests. And sometimes we talk about the people we know.

It’s insignificant to the world.
Our life together; these things we say and do.
All of it.
It’s miniscule.

But I like it all, because I share it with him.


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