Recipe for Romantic Disaster
Romantic disaster is originally a Latin dish, though it has been so universally beloved that it has taken on local flavors wherever it is prepared.
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Let me tell you about dependency. Not the vulgar physical kind—track marks, tremors, the bodily revolt—but something more insidious. A psychological topology where every interaction is mediated through this small, mathematically perfect oval.
Before you, in the tree that was at your back, there sits a snowy owl. You stop and stand there, looking at each other, two sets of eyes, yellow and brown. Two animals in the dark. Then he blinks, turns his head, and takes to the air. You stay there for a moment. You wonder what color your daughter’s eyes will be.
Surely, he must have been good in bed. He must have been SPECTACULAR, really, if I was so willing to haul ass up to Yonkers to sleep with him. You would be mistaken.
She locked the door to the small stall and cried. She peed. Then she went upstairs and smiled as she sat back down.