TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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A tender and acute awareness of the other—is that love? This morning in the kitchen of my newlywed friends, he commented on the way she had slept, rubbing her cheek across the pillow, as if searching for the best spot. So I thought of the way Daragh just knew how I had painted my toenails turquoise out of pragmatism, rather than whim, and the way I noticed only he could know these things about me.