June 2012
“
contiguous, adj.
I felt silly for even mentioning it, but once I did, I knew I had to explain.
“When I was a kid, “I had this puzzle with all fifty states on it—you know, the kind where you have to fit them all together. And one day I got it in my head that California and Nevada were in love. I told my mom, and she had no idea what I was talking about. I ran and got those two pieces and showed it to her—California and Nevada, completely in love. So a lot of the time when we’re like this”—my ankles against the backs of your ankles, my knees fitting into the backs of your knees, my thighs on the backs of your legs, my stomach against your back, my chin folding into your neck—“I can’t help but think about California and Nevada, and how we’re a lot like them. If someone were drawing us from above as a map. that’s what we’d look like; that’s how we are.”
For a moment, you were quiet. And then you nestled in and whispered.
“Contiguous.”
And I knew you understood.
