What would you like to do this afternoon, Neamhchiontach?
Paint our faces like butterflies, blow bubbles and dance on the beach. Maybe go get some pho.
With the face paint still on?
Of course. We're not savages.
He frowns. No way in his hell am I getting any of that. He marvels that I didn't just make up something civilized for his ease of saying he could grant all my wishes. I mean, I'd like to go roller-blading too or kayaking but I'm also scared shitless of both of those things and those feel more like things I should do than things I want to do. And what I want to do is paint my face like a butterfly.
He's wrestling with his response and it's winning. I can see it pushing him right out of the circle.
How about lunch?
Pho would be good. I mentioned it already. They HATE pho. Hate it. I like it. It's weird. But I'll concede on the pho if I can paint your face.
His head drops and he wishes the ground would cough up a normal person, no doubt. A trophy-girlfriend. Someone predictable.
(Ha. That's dumb. Who likes normal?)
But we still have to go out fully painted.
I get it. You're not ready for full-on weird.
Oh, I am.
So I can paint your face?
Drat. You know who will let me paint their faces without complaining?
Anyone but you. Just sayin'.