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the person who got burned by soup will even blow on yogurt.
babies cry at birth to let oxygen fill their lungs for the first time. As we grow older, we cry again, wondering whether things would be easier if we no longer had oxygen filling our lungs.
“What are you doing? Stop moving,” he murmurs against my ear. I don’t listen and keep moving. “What is that? Oh, can you take your phone out of your pocket? I’m sitting on it.” “No, that’s all me, love, so stop before it gets worse.”
“That”—I point at it, almost as if I were disappointed—“will never fucking fit.” “That”—he points at mine—“will welcome me like I was custom built to be inside of it,” he says. “It will fit perfectly.”
“Or else I’ll fuck you so hard that they’ll be stuck at the back of your head, unable for you to ever roll them again.”
“You’re good with children,” I tell him. He tilts his head to face me. “Is that a fact?” “Yes. Maybe you should have some of your own someday.” “Will you make them with me?” “Are you asking me to sleep with you?” He shakes his head. “No, I’m asking whether you want to have children with me. Don’t confuse the two, love.” And he asks, “Will you be their mother?” “No?” “Then, I don’t want them.”
“Are you offering?” “Well, yes?” I say as he stands up, making me look up at him now. He slightly tilts up his chin while looking down at me. “You.” I sigh. “I can’t give you myself.” “Fine. Then I want you to kiss me. Kiss me for a good thirty-four seconds. That’s what I want you to give me.”
“When I gave you gardenias, I meant, secret love. When I gave you clovenlip toadflax flowers, I meant, please notice my feelings for you. When I gave you yellow hyacinths, I meant, I’m jealous of the peasant. And when I give you this”—he hands me the bouquet—“I mean, be mine, my love.” He gets down on one knee. “I’m going to propose to you again. For the love of God, put me out of my misery. Will you be my faux nothing?”
