Baggage

We either have baggage, or we do not. There is no in between.

 

I had a recent, irrational infatuation with someone who was trying to carry a metaphorical steamer trunk around with her. She would have been better suited to just fucking check the unwieldy thing in at the metaphorical ticket counter. Instead, she tried to stuff it in to the metaphorical overhead bin, then sit next to me and commence a trip-long chat (in metaphorical first-class, of course.) But every time we hit turbulence, that steamer trunk would tumble out of the overhead bin, crack open, and reveal nothing more significant than her urge to reconceal (reconcile…hmmmmm) it.

 

I told her a hundred times that I did not mind her steamer trunk of baggage. I told her I’d help her carry it to the ends of the earth. Foolishly, she opted to pretend it was never there. Foolishly, I called her not on the denial she felt, but on the defiance she projected. I’m a metaphorical idiot.