“I’m going to eat you alive,” he says with the utmost seriousness, sleep-gravel still in his voice.
“I’m going to turn you to stone and put you in the garden,” I respond gravely.
“I’m going to gnaw on your collar bones like a rabid dog.”
“I’m going to melt you into a puddle and suck you up through a straw.”
“I’m going to turn you into a toad and let you give me warts.”
“I’m going to sharpen you like a pencil and carve your name into my body.”
“I’m going to open up your chest and kiss your heart,” he says.
He always wins this game. I guess it’s because he’s a professional songwriter; I call him the Jeff Buckley to my Joanna Newsom. We met only six months ago but we both knew immediately that we were an inevitable and glorious collision. All of our moments in solitude were spent tumbling towards each other unconsciously.
He presses a gentle kiss to my temple and rolls to the edge of the bed to go make our morning tea and bagels. The wedding is tomorrow and I can’t wait to dance.
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