Mimi's name is actually Clementine. I still haven't taken her ice skating, and I still want to but I won't ever say that. I haven't called her Clementine since we broke up. In November, she gave me some six-hundred page novel translated from Japanese and told me to read it. She swore I'd adore it. Picture a wild Freudian teen on the lam and a Hegelian prostitute and World War II. I hated the book, but I knew reading it would make her happy, so I did.
Once while Clementine was sitting on my bedroom floor, playing with my cat, she casually mentioned:
"If you were a supernatural creature, Izak, I think you'd be an alien."
"Why would I be an alien?"
"I don't know. You just are. Aliens are, like, really smart and weird,"
"Am I really smart and weird?"
"Uh-huh. And cool,"
"I think you would be a fairy. Or an angel. But you believe those are real, so are they really supernatural? Are aliens?"
"Ugh. You and your metrics,"
