Fiction 116

“Can you *ever* eat without spilling something?” he asks, a mock frown on his face, wiping the pasta from her chin.

“Nope. Neither is that one of my aspirations in life. If it spills, we wipe, and move on, no?”

“Like you seem to be doing everything these days.”

“Pretty much. But this is so much better than living a stupid, guarded, controlled anxiety-ridden life anyway.”

“And you got all of that from pasta-spilling.” he laughs.

“You think of me as a bumbling idiot don’t you?”

“Yes, but my favourite bumbling idiot.”

“Thanks for making me feel so good about myself. You should try volunteering for a suicide helpline sometime.” she snarls

“For a woman who pretends to be sweet, you sure have the temper of a lioness,” he says, wiping yet another trickle of sauce.

“Exactly. Do you see lionesses wiping their faces with napkins when they eat?”

“How can anyone be so adorable and crazy at the same?” he laughs, pulling her into his arms and kissing her pasta-smeared lips.

 

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