I Rather Be Making New Family Traditions Than Mouthing A Stranger Who Called Me Pretty At A Mini-Golf Course

I like girls in ties. She said and she had to pause and re-emphasis when he only shook his head, slightly yes and didn't lift to meet her gaze. She held the like out this time, and put her hand on his knee. I like girls in ties.

She expected it, damn near demanded it, when she placed her left hand on his thigh, he'd say, "hey beautiful." And her world would calm again. She was dramatic, a child, her voice closed down way in her throat and she spoke like she didn't know any better to laugh when she felt like laughing and to cry whenever the feeling took her. She covered his face with her tears and they made soup.

Working quietly together, she knew what he was doing without looking up or asking. She could count on him to do his part as quickly as she did hers. So much so, that she found she only remembered half of recipes. She'd forget to chop the onion before sauteing the greens,or to mix the oil with the flour. How many cups of water she needed. Those were his bits to remember, to do. And she was happy to share.

It seems that simple life isn't made to accommodate crowns, and I can't seem to find a single appropriate place to put mine, besides on my head. My sister keeps asking if I've worn my crown during sex yet. Says, it would have been first on her list if it was hers. Would wear it every time she did it, if she had one. But my head its messy, and the crown is pointy and jeweled. I'm unsure how he'd feel, to see it reflecting colors, in a nest of my hair.

I'm happy to think of marriage. It doesn't seem grand or all ending. Just natural. Just certain. Just something. A why not. A no brainer. A good excuse to change my passport and take a vacation. The only way the PeaceCorps will accept us. A way to end the accidental slips of "husband" that on occasion, escape. Outside the land of rationale, it slows down. No rush. No hurry. I mean, we've got a lifetime, right?
I've got a career to start and seeds to sow. And let's face it, the guy who served the coffee might need a pick me up of his own.
Bored with intrigue, it stops. A joke. An echo to something less. And they don't leave out a single thing on these models, rogue nosehairs, praying for the invention of the tweezers. Frozen flies no longer buzzing but still as pesty.

The point: I'm always cold. He keeps me warm. I can't make soup without him.