No, he's not cleaning the kitchen, or putting the door back up.
He's with me, talking about the poems he is writing. I know you don't know about them. He' writes in a middle modern style and combines them with photos from in world. He's going to make it a virtual book.
No, he's not putting up the pictures, or tightening the pipes.
He's with me, telling me about an idea he has for a mathematical paper, and how it solves some interesting problems, if it is true.
No, he's not mowing the lawn, again, because you don't think it is even enough.
He's with me, showing me his latest build, 3000 prims of German Baroque. The gilding is particularly good.
No, he's not going to do the shopping.
He's with me, explaining how the banking system works, and why I shouldn't put money into the dollar.
No, he's not going to paint the back door just because you chipped it with your heel.
He's with, dancing the ballroom dance, and glancing over at the slow dance that is just within reach. He is telling me about how Mingus had the idea for this track in a dream, and how the bass line works.
No. I know you two aren't having sex, and even though the two of us aren't, and never will in the flesh, his eyes are staring through the screen, and at me. I've sent him my rl picture. I keep in shape.
He's with me tonight, and in many moments in the in between. Because that something that is something in him, is something he can show to me.
And I listen.
Why don't you?