Me:I lysoled my black gloves after using them today, just so you know.
Moments pass. Many, many moments pass. I picture her lost in a sea of white clouds, inspecting every inch of what I’m certain is a blindingly bleached home for any speck of dirt. Finally, she pauses her compulsive germ war to reply:
Dove:Why would you do something like that?
Why? Oh, precious girl.
Me:So you’ll be more comfortable when I touch you.
More moments. More fantasies of Azalea scurrying about in an apron while she cleans. Then the gift of a response:
Dove:Since when have you ever concerned yourself with my comfort?
For a woman trying to kill me, it’s adorable how honest she’s being. The way she wears the truth on her skin is beautiful. Her emotions—usually so tepid and subdued—rise and fall and crash whenever they rear. They’re either silent or screaming, and can anyone really blame me if I love the sound of the screams?
Me:You’re the one who told me to be kind.
Dove:You had those gloves prepared before I told you that.
Cute, smart, perfect little Azalea.
Me:So, one might assume, I was already intending to be very, very kind to you.
Dove:Doubtful. You haven’t been kind to me a day in your life.
Me:You really think terrible things about me, don’t you?
Dove:Professionally, no, sir.
Me:And romantically?
She sends me a middle finger emoji.
Me:Well, no matter how it might shock you, I happen to like you a great deal.
Dove:Yes, that does shock me. Quite a bit. Considering how very little you act like it.
Me:I’ve not been that awful to you, have I?
Dove:Remember that time you intentionally and specifically wiped ketchup on my clothes?
Me:Fondly.
Dove:Despite it being so obvious how important cleanliness is to me, you smeared red on the top of my favorite white dress. How, exactly, is that not “being awful”?
I dipped the pad of my finger in the puddle of ketchup that came with my lunch, then I made her stand still while I pressed the stain into her perfectly white blouse. There was a flash of emotion in her eyes followed by its swift murder. The entire rest of the day, she hardly blinked.
So I never did something like that again because the last thing I want from her is a shutdown.
I am desperate for her emotions—whatever they are—to break free. I want them to bathe me. Scorch me.Kill me.
She’s such a perfect, precious being, and she deserves to know love at the depth of the emotions she could feel if only something hadn’t taught her to bottle them up.
What I wouldn’t give to love her openly like that.
What I wouldn’t endure to convince her she wants to love me in the same way.
Me:The ketchup smear was a little heart.
