Rosario Dawson and I are lying in the queen-sized bed inside our treehouse, eating berries while the Victrola spins out lazy, gauzy tunes that crackle and snap with the analog warmth of the brittle vinyl upon which they’re stamped. We are also having a conversation.
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
“I am in love with you.”
“I’m in love with you too.”
“Yeah, but I love you though.”
“Except that I love you.”
“Ah, but have I mentioned that I love you?”
“Uh huh, but I don’t know if you caught the part where I love you.”
“It was hard to hear because I love you so much.”
“Yeah, I was going to mention that but I was too busy loving you.”
“Oh. Oh guess what? I love you.”
“Really? That’s so weird, because I love you too.”
“I love you.”
“No, I love you.”
“Allah view.”
“Olive yew two.”
“I …”
“Love me?”
“I love you.”
“I thought so.”
“Hey. Hey guess what?”
“I love you?”
“No! I love you!”
“I did NOT see that coming!”
“I KNOW, RIGHT?!”
Etc.
