grapple for a segue, any segue. “Uhhh, I’ll only make the s’mores if you cut a deal, though,” is what I come up with. He’s frozen, we’re frozen like this, his arms crossed and resting just above my very clenched behind. Ovaries can’t make sounds internally, right? Like how a stomach growls? His ear is pressed so close to them. I can practically feel my eggs screaming in tiny cartoon voices, “We’re in here, sweet virile man! Save us from this would-be spinster she-devil! Let us not waste in vain!”
