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Well, fuck.

Actually, if you have a moment, fuck, fuck, fuckitty fuck mcfuckface.

Despite having a very clear idea of the reasons we can't work, she and I have apparently decided (without the express written consent of the NFL) damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.

The ongoing problem is when we touch. I've been in her apartment for a total of five days over the past two months, and ... things did not go according to plan. We just ... I don't really know how to explain it, as it's ineffable.

My body does not register touching her. You might think this is a bad thing, and it is, but likely not for the reasons you imagine. Rather, neither of us recognizes the other as a foreign body. Touching her hand was like grabbing my right hand with my left the night we met, setting everything in motion.

We can still easily pull off "old married couple" interactions. Cards. A nice fire in the fireplace. Some cold beers. Good music. Getting into bed naked. For your listening pleasure, I'll stop there.

We did such a good job of hating each other for like eight years. This detente is welcome but also alarming, given why this has to remain a fantasy.