𝙾 𝙲 𝙲 𝚄 𝙻 𝚄 𝙼

Our first date: I unfurl a list of my neuroses. It is handwritten by monks; it has flourishes of gold leaf. It makes a sound like a gust of dry wind and continues unrolling until the entire restaurant is blanketed in off-white parchment. You become a mummy: wrapped in character flaws and other small failings. I offer to pay the bill.

Our second date: we play putt putt golf and you are Way Too Good. Every time you open your mouth to speak it pours golf balls, which find the holes on the course like heat-seeking missiles. The Windmill Hole is terrifying—the most difficult of all—and if you don’t time it right, the windmill’s gleaming blades will slice your golf ball clean in half. You sink it.

Our third date: as you undress me I warn you that I’m ticklish, but you don’t listen, so when your fingertips graze my bare shoulder, I laugh at the exact resonant frequency of every window in your house. They all shatter. We make love in a house that is just walls and ceilings—no windows—and I laugh the whole time.

 

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Rachel Sandle’s work has appeared in Bad Pony Magazine, Cold Creek Review, Prairie Margins, and others. She lives in Kansas and wishes she lived somewhere warmer. Follow her on twitter @rachelsandle.