M says, You use too many adjectives, it’s true. M says, You write poetry like a 16 year old. He nods his head. You do.
I am hurt. Do I look wounded at all? I’ll try harder. I’ll pout.
We walk up Second Avenue eating leftover Cadbury Creme Eggs, the innards clinging to his upper lip. (M will object to that word, clinging, for being too feminine.)
M, I say, you are too mean. The worst part is, when you are nasty, you are still holding back on all the mean you think. You only say half of the mean you really are.
He considers this and agrees. No one has ever said that, he says, but you’re right. You’re exactly right.
I finished my egg but he is still walking and sucking.
Well I suppose I didn’t use adjectives, but M will object, somehow, some way, like a 16 year old poet in a fit.