corin is 6'2" with glasses and gapped teeth and an unlined face. when corin walks, his windbreaker swishes in time like a metronome to warn me he is approaching. corin is a slam poet and a conspiracy theorist and rode the same bus as me until he got fired from his blood bank call center job for telling someone to "eat shit." by some fortune, corin is very in love with me.
it’s easy enough for men fall in love when they think that the reason you are in their train car or bus is fatalistic and they immediately take possession. the same instinct drives them to take pictures of roadkilled possums and birds that have been dislodged from nests: “this existed. i saw it. it was mine and only mine even if just for a minute.”
i don't want to be the roadkill in corin's love story, but i think i'm already laying in the street.