We were on-again, off-again, always closing or opening, always on the verge of war or entente. Our friends, during periods of calm, said it meant we were really in love because it was proof of strong feeling. I think we hoped that was true; I think we took all those pictures of all those happy moments to convince ourselves of it, to bias our memories away from the always-incipient sturm und drang.
I think I may have been addicted to you, to your smell and to the curve of your body and to your worldly laugh. I drank you like whiskey and when you were gone I suffered in a cold sweat until I broke down and sought you out like an alcoholic desperate for an all-night liquor store.
But you, you weren't addicted to me: you were addicted to the adrenaline, to the heart-pounding thrill of it, of us. I was a theme-park roller-coaster to you. You rode me until you were tired and hot and wanted to rest on a bench in the shade; later, you'd jump up and declare that you were ready to go again, and there was never a line, not once, not for you.