“I feel like I’m a typo.”
Ed’s buttery fingers froze mid-way before he could fill his mouth with another handful of popcorn. It was an awfully regular Sunday afternoon. He didn’t shave. She didn’t wax her legs. They were watching re-runs of their favourite show, sprawled on the floor on a messy blanket. It was perfect. For him, at least.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I feel like I’m a typo,” Ann repeated, and looked at him petulantly.
Oh my lord, he thought. He knew what was coming. Slinky was going to slink into one of her moods. Must tread carefully.
“What do you mean you’re a typo?”
“What are typos, Ed? They are words that were meant to be something else. They were meant to serve another purpose. But because you’ve already pressed ‘send’, they’re out there now. Lingering, walking around with asterisks on their head, questioning their existence. Do you…
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