Photo by Matheus Bertelli from Pexels

Melissa plays this song every time we’re in the car.

“The music is beautiful, but I hate its message.”

Her taffy moods confound me. She wants to make out. She wants to take it slow. She thinks one day we’ll get married. She wonders if we should see other people. I wrap myself around her cutlery limbs, arms like butter knives, ribs like shrimp forks.

“This is nice.”

I lean in for the kiss, and she escapes. Fireflies infest a nearby field, throbbing like canker sores in twilight’s mouth. She runs after them like a puppy discovering grass.