I fall a little more in love.
“I know everything about vaginas,” he tells me. “We—hic!—talked about them at dinner every night.”
“I love your mom.”
“I love my mom.”
“Can she adopt me?”
“You have to take my dad too.”
“Is he a dick floor therapist?”
Once again, Heath chokes on his wine.
He wipes the red liquid off his beard, and I sigh in utter happiness.
I miss utter happiness.
“He’s Thor,” Heath says.
“Is he a hammer floor therapist?”
“Stop being funny.”
“If you pee yourself when you laugh, you should definitely see your dad for dick floor therapy.”
He cracks up and keeps cracking until he’s guffawing.
“That’s right, baby,” I crow, lifting my empty wine glass. “I amfunnyandchaosand youloveit.Cin cin!”
“I don’t want to like you.”
“I have a massive crush on you.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Like everyone doesn’t.”
“I have—hic!—baggage.”
“Ihave a wholetrain car.”
“I have a FedEx plane.”
“I have an Amazon warehouse.”
“I have the Library of Congress.”
I gasp. “That’s so meta and huge.”
“So’s my dick.” His eyes go huge and his lips part like he knows he shouldn’t have said that, but I laugh so hard I have to sit down.
The chicken bagocks and flaps her wings, running across the empty space with her wings flapping.
“Don’t chicken on the sit,” Heath says. “Fuck. Dammit. Now I’m doing it.”
“More wine.”
