He labours like a damp lawnmower farting because it can't stop. But this doesn't matter; after the petrol gasses have cleared the hay is short and we can roll in it. We are green again, from the grassy juices.
When we met, 15 years ago, I hung like a suspended key waiting for a piano to fall out of the sky. An impossibility, you say; but he landed straight on me. He bought me a beer and some crisps, and I punched his girlfriend. Then I punched his ex-girlfriend, and after that he and I were like a tangled tube unraveling an endless ball of string, no end, no hope or desire for disambiguation.
Now, like a sweet anniversary making tea for comfort, we are settled, rhythmic, symbiotic. I screw up my computer and he fixes it.