the give up kid

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In Brooklyn, our hair is piled on our heads in sweaty knots, and all our clothes used to be other clothes – jeans, corduroy pants, long sleeved shirts. They have ragged edges and threads that remind us of who they once were. We paint the kitchen cabinets white, then spend the next three days picking paint off our skin. We sweep the floor, we drag tables and chairs around the backyard, we hang lights on the trees. We sweat, and we shower, and we sweat again. We drink iced tea and water with lemons and cucumbers and let our coffee get cold.

We open the document. We close it. We retreat. We wonder if there could be a life without this, if we really need it, if things would be easier if we thanked it for its time and walked away. We contemplate painting the door. We change the cats’ water. We open the document. We do laundry. We consider making soup.

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