Yes yes, going to be hanging out with you this weekend, chair and desk, desk and chair. Doing big things. Big chair and desk things. These things. Us things. Me things. Wait—is that like Me Time? Because if it is, we might have to think about inviting someone over, even if they just watch, or sit (quietly) in the other room. Then it’ll count as We Time, I think (right?), and won’t sound so, I don’t know, stupid.
Me Time. What the fuck is that. These quaint little undefinables to which we brusquely nod assent, taking them at wholesale, stock face value…
I once knew a girl who wanted Me Time, would say that precisely, one of her catch phrases, like a character in a bad sitcom—“I just need some Me Time,” she’d say—and I’d hear it in caps and quotations and wonder what time wasn’t hers. Well, now she’s got plenty, I assume, or at least she doesn’t have my time to worry about anymore. Nor I hers.
So let’s have some We Time, desk and chair and (quiet) stranger and I. We’ll make something of it, better make something of it, before some new Me comes along again and Time turns back into a Thing again, a negotiable, defensible, procurable, nameable Thing again.
Or maybe we’ll be an Us and Time won’t even matter.
M. 
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