We were sitting on your bed, and you were annoyed with me, and you had a black Sharpie marker in your hand, and you said, “Hey, can I write something on your shirt?”
And I said, “Sure,” because it was actually your shirt.
And you wrote “PAY ATTENTION TO ME,” across the front, below the v-neck, but also on my chest, since the t-shirt was worn, thin, and the ink bled through.
And it was a fitting phrase, because I was, obviously, clamoring for your attention while you quietly labeled whatever it was that you were labeling with your permanent marker before you labeled me.
(Video tapes of TV shows you recorded faithfully, on your VCR, for your “library,” for posterity.)
I only realized, just now, though, that you probably meant that I should pay attention to you too.
