In literary theory, the chronotope is how a moment in time and space collide through language.


His head rests on my chest. I haven’t taken my shirt off just yet — later, I end up tossing it happily on the floor of his new studio apartment. My fingers glide through his tight, curly hair.

I remember him three years ago, in his dorm room, telling me that getting his head scratched is his favorite.

We watch a short documentary on Netflix. He exclaims something about wanting to incorporate minimalism into a daily routine. I listen and think how I want to exclaim that I want to kiss him softly, roughly, everything in-between.

Kissing breaks his rules — I had my chance. We lay in our underwear, pressed together. We do everything but kiss or fuck. I content myself in the tender moment and learn to take it for what it is. Nothing more, nothing less.

I realize it’s been a few hours; my car is in a timed parking garage. I get up to leave. “I’m definitely not going to go home and think about this the second I lay down.” “I’m definitely not laying down and doing anything the second you leave.”

I get to my car and hear my phone. Venmo. Five dollars for parking. A gold medal emoji.

A couple weeks later, I remember the documentary, and I get rid of my television.

The Impressionist