One day I want to remember that you told me how selfish you are.
We were laughing as the waves and the rising tides hit us and threw us. We held hands amidst the oncoming water barrage. I threw sand on your chest and you threw some down my shirt. I was appalled — laughing and pissed off.
“Someday you’ll miss me,” you said, referring, of course, to how you’re going to die before me.
I laughed. I’ve learned to ignore that, to not argue and to not force you to be in love with life as much as I am with it; but I thought otherwise today. “Why do you always say that you’ll go before me?”
You just smiled. “I’m selfish like that.”
(writing practice inspired by unphotographable.com)