You shaved your facial hair, slowly.

You shaved your facial hair, slowly, and for a brief hour looked like Joe Exotic, The Tiger King.

I dressed up in leopard print with big hoop earrings for our first date, and couldn't stop smiling.

How could we be laughing so hard? Why did I feel so guilt-free?

It's the abe and cheek muscle workout you experience when you've melted away in conversation enraptured by the moment, belly-laughs, a shared existence.

You shaved your facial hair slowly, and I wore leopard print.

It was so the "I-95" mask would fit even better.

I told you it looked cute, and I could have said, "I'm angry with the entire fucking world."

We nicknamed her Rona, the third-wheel in our friendship triangle. Not much of a friend, really. She keeps you up all night caring for others in the ICU and we stay in the virtual space of both limbo and joy.

It's like your ten minutes down the street, in another time zone.

"A slow burn, Tara," Rona tells me.

"Fuck you, Rona," I think sweetly, like an old yiddisha-mama who has a disapproving look on her face, scolding an unwieldy highschooler.

You shaved your facial hair, slowly, and I wore leopard print.