“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t”, he said, refusing to look up from his tomato soup existence.
“But…” I said, floating in cream of mushroom.
“No. And that’s final”, he said, drowning croutons.
“But you must!” I said assassinating asparagus.
“And how do you intend to make me?” he asked, twisting his flour-dough fingers.
“I don’t know. But, please?” I pleaded, cracking my fortune-cookie knuckles.

He agreed eventually. Blue eyes red. Angry, red, red. Me ballerina-hopping-happy. Sulk, sulk, sulk. Ha, ha, ha!

What a night before the other night. No love. Love. No love. Love, love, love. Nope. No love. Oh no, but oh yes! Yes. Yes. Yes! Love. Slipping out. Spilling out. Nope. It’s gone now. Score(eventually): No love (lost).

Morning of the expected night was pregnant with twisted vein-nerve-artery dilemma and doubtful anger and joy. Eggs cracking and sizzling and tsk-tsking like vengeful, bitter-tongued mother-in-laws.

“Na, na, na. Woohoohoo!” he showered under the Victoria.
“Shit. Shit. Oh Shit!!!” I prepared breakfast in the caveman’s kitchen.

Afternoon, I was in Jamaica. He was in Tokyo.
Early evening I was in New York. He was in Los Angeles.
Late evening we were both in Las Vegas.

“And?” he asked, purple, from holding his breath.
“I haven’t seen” I said, jelly-legged and noodle-brained.

We decided to wait till it was night.

The void of time and space was filled with inky-blue melancholy. Entwined like a couple of mating snakes. As still as malaria water.

Then, it was time.

Then it was past that time.

Then it was way past that time.

I was finally a dandelion. He was finally the grand old oak he wanted to be, but didn’t know he wanted to be. We were both glad of course.