I Want a Word

Abstract

I want a word. A noun. I don't even care what it is any more. Girlfriend. Bitch. Wife. Slavegirl. It doesn't matter. I can no longer live without a word for myself. I sit in a bar across from a woman with whom I've done most of what there is for people to do in pairs. She calls me Kyle. She says: is my . .. to people we meet. I can stand this only because I truly love the word. Kyle is a very full word. It has a lot of meaning on its own, because, considering the time, place, and circumstances of my birth, it really ought to be Debbie. My personality has spent twenty-eight years training itself to meet the demands of the word Kyle, not the word Debbie. This, combined with the slight inappropriateness of a woman's being named Kyle, usually elicits for me the word Yes. It's a word. But it's an adjective. I want a noun. I used to love it when people thought I was different or special, until I realized that this jazz has aced me out of what I really want, which is a word. A noun word. You're a very special person, Kyle. I don't think there is a word that can really describe what you are to me. This is the familiar anthem of each and every one with whom I become involved. It makes me love them. It makes me hate them. It