She put on that weird insect porn, and then tried to have a normal conversation with me. Strange, alien creatures mumbling obscenities at each other as the gyrated painfully on her 350-inch TV. 

“Are you dating me because you like my personality or my ass?” she asked me, eyeing me like I was one of those aggressive sexual criminals she liked to pick up online. 

“I don’t love you, I love how you make me feel.” I say the words in my head, but they don’t quite make it out into the room. All I can hear is those bugs, fucking. I think they hate each other. I wonder how much they have to be paid. I can’t even tell how many there are of them in the scene; it’s all just limbs and mandibles and aggression.

“I want to feel you struggling to love me,” she said. I love the way she says struggle, like it’s a invitation to dance, or to go to war. Her affection warps me, makes me feel trapped in a box.