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“You look like Taylor Swift circa 2013,” she told me, pleased, finishing side-curling my hair. “I was aiming more for AOC circa 2020.” “Yeah.” She sighed. “We all were.”
I want you to marry me tomorrow so you can go on my health insurance. I want to lock you in my room for a couple of weeks. I want to buy groceries based on what you like. I want to play it cool, like I’m attracted to you and not obsessed out of my mind, but that’s not where I’m at. Not at all. And I need you to keep us in check. I need you to pace us, because wherever it is that we’re going . . . I’m here. I’m already right here.”
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