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  • Fiction is that mussed-haired lover who appears half-clothed in the door with a cigarette asking for a light in a no-smoking motel room.
    Fiction is a skinny man who could stand to work out but doesn't, because he doesn't give a f**k what you think of him, and he's focused on his art.
    Fiction swears at you and calls you out on your dodges and your lies and your crappy view of the world and makes you cry even as you know he's miserably right.
    Fiction wants you to go to bed with him in the middle of the afternoon for hours even though you have work due.
    Fiction says screw the housework, let's go into the city and feed each other cream buns and make out in the park.
    Fiction is sensual, with blunt fingers and calm, examining eyes that assess you and make your soul want to be naked.

    Non-fiction wears her hair in a bun and says: "How are we going to pay for this?" and "Can you deliver on time?"
    Non-fiction writes notes to herself on post-its, which she transfers onto her calendar or scrunches up into a tight wad that she throws in her conveniently-to-hand wastebasket.
    Non-fiction wants a re-write. In two hours.
    Non-fiction has bright red nail polish, and books herself a manicure every 10 days, and a cut and color every 5 weeks.
    Non-fiction has tight lines around her mouth. She wants to get it figured out. She wants to succeed.
    Non-fiction will keep you fed. She'll buy dog food and pay the Visa bill. She will make you justify your debts.

    Once they got together. She planned the route on the map, while he stared out the window at a man sweeping the parking lot. When she looked up from her pad of notes, Fiction had left the door open on his way outside. She could hear him ask the man about his village, and then he was gone.

    Light that cigarette for the guy in the motel room, and watch what happens when the smoke detector goes off. Your soul won't let you sleep at night if you pass up those cream buns.
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