Intersections: Bare Shoulders

Our cubist love life seemed like a quaint collage of sharp angles, clever left-handed compliments, right brain assumptions that merged in severe cerebral cortex corners, fed our interminable sexual appetites formerly satisfied by duel posturing, youthful swagger. Incline planes linked; we knitted brows then fashioned a coefficient future together, always with mathematical precision, naïve thoughts indifferent to accuracy.

Outdoors we persisted, allowing newspaper visors to shield our romance from unflattering sunrays. Daily attitude adjustments seemed spirited by insincerity, yet amorous beach lounge antics morphed into degrees of compassion. Transcending our gradient relationship, recapturing exploited emotions—squandered opportunities—as rainclouds harassed us with dire, protractor earnest. Creatures of habit, eyes half-shut, we slept on edges in rooms where burnt sienna ceilings met beige plaster walls, mirrors hung everywhere like a carousel sanctuary.

Calculating fractal dimensions, our abstract affair connected avant-garde aesthetics via geometric forms. Meticulously measuring and critiquing each other’s opinions—polite, punctilious ministers of decorum—we celebrated harmony, yet honored all differences as gravely as free-floating Green Lake lanterns.