Seychelles

Maybe sometimes it's ok that he's in your head. Every sentence that he's said to you, only you have heard them. And only you get it. No one has gotten me like the way you get me, he says. It's grammatically incorrect, but you feel a rush anyway and think he's clever as hell.

And in your head, you & he have a special place somewhere on the border of Nolita and Soho. The kind of place that always has Strawberry Abita's when you crave them. With sweet, kitschy photographs of 90's memorabilia and Kandinsky replicas. It doesn't even have a name; it's just called "our place" and you both know to meet there every Thursday at 5:30pm...For a little bit of T.I., some Seychelles and a whole lot of i'm-crazy-about-you's...because in that place, it's always Christmas morning. His hand's on your thigh, your heart written on your face and his eyes telling you everything you imagine your husband would say, promising you the universe. And he smiles yearningly when you say "I'm naming our daughter Tallulah and our son Fritz, not Fitz, but Fritz. Maybe Meaux if there's a second son."

And he says "I can't wait, Babe."

Perhaps all of this exists inside your little head. But it's yours. And it's real. And no one can break it apart.