witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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My friend decided I’m a sociopath. He corrected himself and told me: “you have sociopathic traits.” He read the traits from a list, peering up from his phone to point his finger across to me every time he thought I matched a characteristic on the list.
“That’s definitely you.”
He decided he’s a sociopath, as well. Neither of us could remember the last time we cried, yet we both recalled vividly the last time we made somebody else cry. Mine was September 7th. We were lying in his bed in Milan, undressed for practicality not passion; naked because the humidity was thick and dense, and crept into our pores so deeply it glued us to his mattress. I wiped his tears with my thumb, then turned my back and pressed it against his bare, sticky stomach. He pulled my shoulder towards him and told me to face him—which was taxing to do in both senses of the word. He called me vulnerable and said I needed to be protected. That he loved to protect me. That nothing bad should ever happen to somebody like me because I had a “good heart.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been loved so deeply or so deeply condescendingly.

12:52 a.m. - Monday, Oct. 22, 2012

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