Things The Novelist never liked about me:
My mercurial attitude toward cats (which I think is only what the species deserves considering its mercurial attitude toward me)
My fear of
4. outer space
5. the military
My inability to share an umbrella
My fluctuating ability to sleep (countered with incredible powers of tossy-turny, nightmare-induced fits)
The way I pointed out his eye boogers. At least I stopped trying to pick them out myself.
The way I hated myself.
The way I left his bed messy in the morning. His bed is impossible; old sheets, old mattress, egg-cup foam thing – all askew (see above referenced tossy-turny abilities)
My disdain for frozen vegetables.
My abundant social life. (I kid you not. I’M the social one.)
My untouchable subjects.
My tendency toward disappearance…
Things I never liked about The Novelist:
His fervent need to spread the joy of military history to ME, though repeatedly told of the unwillingness of his audience.
The great agility with which he dismissed my nightmares.
The way he insisted on sharing an umbrella.
His love for me. Highly suspect.
Things I really don’t like about The Novelist now:
His un-love for me.