A bit of fiction. You would think that after answering all those questions, I'd be too tired to write more, because writing is hard, y'all (I'm still all Nashville . . . sorry).
I never bit my nails before I met you. I didn't have any nervous habits. A month after knowing you, and my nails were completely ragged. You did that to me.
You said you wanted to know me. You wanted to know things no one had ever bothered to ask me before. We played twenty questions, sitting in the middle of my bed, my laptop between us. We'd been trying to figure out what movie to see but twenty questions proved more interesting than anything in the theaters. That's when I discovered you had once shaved the family dog and blamed it on your brother. That you'd never been in love. That's when I told you that the saddest day of my life was not the day my father died, but the day after, my first full day in that fatherless void.
You said you wanted to know me, and you did, despite all the times I tried to hide pieces of myself in vague remarks and sarcastic answers to your serious questions. I'd say you knew me better than I knew myself, but that's a cliche and you hated cliches.
I never bit my nails before I met you. You said you wanted to know me and I was afraid. We played twenty questions, you and I, for thirteen months. Your favorite band was Oasis. Your favorite ice cream was strawberry. You once went bungee jumping off the side of a bridge and kept your eyes closed the entire time. Maybe it was that answer that made me realize you'd never chew your nails to the quick for me. Or maybe thirteen was just our unlucky number. What a cliche.
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