Secret Ovaries

Do you know that I don't know exactly when Marco and I became boyfriends-and-girlfriends? Do you know that I also don't know exactly when I fell in love with him, and that he doesn't know either? Do you know that Marco hasn't cut his hair in six months, and that while I love how his hair falls on his face (as the love songs go), it's still terribly annoying? Do you know that I haven't eaten lunch yet? No, you don't know that.

Marco is one of the most difficult people I've ever come across in my as-yet-short life. He is the only man I know who might, upon closer medical inspection, have a pair of hidden ovaries floating somewhere in the regions of his pelvis. These secret ovaries, connected to hidden fallopian tubes, seem to excrete (at unpredictable times) invisible menstrual fluid which causes Marco's uncontrollable mood swings. This is the only logical explanation I have for his mind-boggling irritability.

More often than not, our relationship can be described as a bullfight with no crowds to stab the bull dead at the end of the match. Marco is unbelievably stubborn; so am I. He has the amazing ability to pick up a fight from exactly where we left it. I used to fight back, but I usually lose, so I just ignore him when he does this. It annoys him more, but what do you want me to do? Wear myself down on the blunt edges of his pride? I'm doing nicely on the blunt edges of mine, thanks.

I usually see him once a week now. I used to gripe about it but I just mark it down as one of the inevitable truces in The Whole Sort of General Mish Mash. Things are bland between us lately. We don't argue as much anymore, which means that we don't talk as much as we used to either. Everything is routine. "Good morning luff"—"Have you eaten?"—"No"—"Have you taken your medicines?"—"Yes"—"Go to sleep early"—"When can I see you?"—"I have something to do"—"Okay"—"Fine"—

"I love you."