Me:
Mango and habanero kettle chips. Big black bags.
Avocados in the kitchen if you feel like making yourself some guac
Ginger-beer in the fridge
she’s-TOTS-off-limits:
I…might be hungry after all.
Me:
There’s a theatre upstairs if you wanna watch something while you eat.
she’s-TOTS-off-limits:
Like a movie?
Me:
Or a hockey game.
she’s-TOTS-off-limits:
Or a movie.Or reality TV!
Me:
Technically, hockeyisreality TV
she’s-TOTS-off-limits:
Just not as fun.
Me:
Your words hurt
Heading onto the ice to do mysuperfun job now
she’s-TOTS-off-limits:
Good luck!
Me:
Thanks, Tots :)
“Cal, put the goddamn phone away before Coach loses her shit.”
I give Mateo a nod, but I don’t look away from my screen. We have time while the announcers hype the crowd up for the game. I bargain with myself for a few extra seconds as the svelte form of the woman I shouldn’t be so drawn to pads across my living room with a bowl of chips. She backtracks and reaches for the pothos, drawing the vine to her lipsfor a kiss.
She’s really taking those instructions I left for her seriously. Not that I had any doubts, but this confirms she’s the cutest woman I’ve ever met. She’s so sweet, I’m surprised she isn’t constantly surrounded by people wanting her attention.
I might’ve gone a tad bit overboard in my zeal to keep her in my house longer than required. I absolutely didn’t need to print out the name, origin facts, and care instructions for every plant I own. Or add handwritten notes to each one with the most ridiculous requests: sing Backstreet Boys to the succulents, give the pothos a kiss, this monstera likes hugs but the fiddleleaf is sensitive and needs poetry to perk up.
Plant-specific care is important to me—or so I try to convince myself. That my actions stem from nothing more than a need to keep them thriving. And maybe tease Alia while I’m at it.