FAN WU


Toronto / Writer
Fan Wu doesn't know if he should contact the people with whom he speaks in dreams.


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My best friend's crush recites an apology from across the door. He is a reader of Heidegger with a macho but mousey face, a faint pencil moustache at top of lip. I begin to approve of him, because he is kind enough to practice an apology before giving it — awkwardness matters less than the attempt to be Good. My best friend walks out of the washroom and the two of them hand me a phone that has my high school bully/crush on the other side. His voice has changed — softened. I ask him if he's still writing science fiction; I beg him to call me faggot again, because now I've reclaimed the word. I wake into horniness.

(21/3/2020)
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