Saturday

Tripp is sitting, cross legged on the floor shredding papers. He's worried that if he throws out all of his old bills someone will open the garbage and find his personal information. There are two boxes of papers that need to be shredded. He's so careful, and I am so haphazardous about these things. Who would want to steal my identity anyway?

It just occured to me that I have never seen Tripp's drawings. I have no idea what his work looks like. We live together, but if I were to see a drawing on an anonymous wall I would not know it was his. It's strange isn't it? To live with someone and not really know their handwriting well? To be unable to recognize their style of drawing? And I look at him and realize that I have only known him for 3 1/2 months. That he may have no idea what my chicken scratch looks like. But there are things he has already memorized about me, that others took years and years even just to register. So the lack of time and some things that seem so fundamental to knowing a person, the way their hand leaves ink marks on a page, are really of no consequence. Because I knew in just two days that Tripp is the kind of man that is safe to love.

He just shredded some papers that he was supposed to keep for his records.