As soon as he publishes his book, the house will smell of paint and tears as she lays out a fresh coat of writing material for him. She spends her days half buried under a mountain of books; her meals uneaten and cold from the avalanche. He spends his days wandering the house, the streets, the wild, searching for words that have yet to be discovered (or maybe just for an extra jelly donut). She tapes love notes to the milk bottles; He puts flowers between each typewriter key. They go to the symphony on Sundays: She scribbles away on her program; He is lost in the music. He is in every book of hers, and she in every one of his. They do not understand each other, and yet they will always return each other’s library books, pencil sharpeners, and catchphrases. Some days, they do not say anything. No typewriter keys click. The walls remain untouched. They know that they do not understand everything. They know that is not what love is. They leave understanding things for words. Sometimes words are not enough.
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