You cross your legs and play with your lip ring obssessively, looking like a punk remix of Winona Ryder and Simone de Beauvoir.  I watch with an unguarded fascination as we discuss the homocurious, panicky literary types and all of our adoring fans.  Suddenly I feel like Lane from Franny and Zooey, especially when you start eating the spinach artichoke dip. “God, can we live in this stuff?” and then, bumping my fork with yours, “Let’s work together” and then impetuously, authoritatively, “That’s your side, this is mine.”  I know you don’t think I’m a section man, but what I mean is that you give me the kind of inflated self-worth and personality assurance that people search for their whole lives.  It’s like my friend Nick said about looking at the world through stained-glass goggles.  Who wants to remember what the actual colloquialism is, but that’s what we have.  We’ve each got one half of the goggles, and periodically we have to connect them together for the vision to be completed.  Let’s always insist on coffins made of vinyl with corduroy padding and create controversy whenever we feel the whim.   Let’s not think of ourselves as either apart or together, but always on one another’s mind.  I’ll be your doppelganger if you’ll be mine.