The Superbowl

Football is on in the other room. I realize I liked the game more when I had it bad for a player, when I followed his body throughout each play, when I worried every time he ended up pinned to the ground by the other team. And I got jealous every time a manager girl would hug him, because I knew he was more than just a pretty football player.

I'm not going to watch the game. I'll read Lewis or Dostoevsky instead.

Or maybe I'll talk to Jesus about how there's a new boy.