You had just jetéd into your pants, those impermissibly-low-cut sevens with the miraculous inseam, and now you lunged in front of the mirrored entry closet, speculating whether you should layer another beater on. You decided against it; your bra was extra cute that day.
You watched him meet you in the mirror; saw, but didn’t feel, his hands come around, trying to sneak into your pockets. “god poured you into those jeans,” he thanked, burying his lips in your hair. He lifted you into fourth position and slowly revolved you, delighting in you and your double, viewing more of you than he ever could in a less miraculous reality. You will never see one more content.