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My home is your home. My arms are a haven for you to rest. My last name is yours if you desire it. I will love you to my grave, and even beyond it, when the mists welcome me, when I am hopefully very old and gray and grouchy and have spent the seasons beside you when you are here and dreaming of you when you are gone. I love you, dearly, Red.
How can someone write a man this perfect? I can’t.
“I cannot pretend with you any longer,” she said. “I love you. I have loved you for a long time.”
THE LONGINGGGGGGGG
No, this was for him and for me. And if we wanted to tell it, we would in our own way.
I’m going to throw up.
