your keys go in a bowl to the left of the door. they make that familiar scoop clatter sound as they go in. the bowl is white, and the keys are silver. looped on with a heavy duty stainless steel split ring is a black-and-white photobooth photo of two figures in embrace encased in a plastic keychain.

it’s a small place, you practically have to take your shoes off in the kitchen sink. but because it’s small, everything must go back in its place. i have a particular, innate and inescapable aversion to this; you, on the other hand, do this like water. you flow through a space and things get nudged into correctness and suddenly all is right again.

you have rules for me, i follow them. i squeegee the shower and i fold socks in pairs in half instead of doing the thing where you roll one cuff over the other to keep them together. you say it's because the rolling creates bulk and looks messy, besides, it stretches them out, you insist. it keeps them together, i say, but your argument is fluid and airtight and it wins. there is no reason to do that because they sit in the drawer, they're not going anywhere. rolling them is just panic that they'll lose each other, but they won't.

again and again, you are correct.

there is hair falling out of your topknot and something baking in the oven and you are licking batter off your finger while you straighten my shoes by the door with your toe. you do both of these things without noticing. you are humming. this happens often.

the rules i thought i didn't have are ludicrous, but still you follow them. half the time i don't even remember what it is i ask of you, but you do it. you wait in silence when i suffer because i need to do a fair bit of it by myself first. you slice an avocado longways, then shortways, then softly dole out squares into a salad bowl. they make that familiar soft thump, thump sound underlined by the gentle crunching of spring mix, purple and green.

i burn cds and i work standing up and i pace on the phone while you sit quietly on your laptop or check something on the stove. i go to your art shows and smile and take photos, soft click. i wait and watch while you greet people. faces blur into arms into different colored sweaters and curly hair. you hug everyone with the same warmth and sweet upturn of your brows. every so often we lock eyes over someone's shoulder and you wink, hey baby, i'm still here. it's a split second i get, you are working after all. and we go home together, and you are either buzzing with energy so we debrief on the train, or you are exhausted, quiet, and moving like honey, head on my shoulder. i'll watch the stop for us, close your eyes.

the rules we have but do not often speak about are keep your head up, stay decent, don't slide. the rules are get up early for school and do the right thing. the rule is laugh with me in the morning about something benign that's only funny because we both noticed it separately. i am our old building creaking in the winter and you are our old building buzzing in the summer. we oil our own gears and carry our own change and have our own friends. you fix your bike and i fix the neighbor's stove. there is a natural stretch forward in the same direction, not towards each other. we would be stagnant if that was the case. we are pragmatic and take no offense. we try and we try and we find our own second winds. but again and again, we step off the platform at the same time.

again and again, we push two twin beds together.