tequila sunrise

A rash of weddings, he said, but I shook my head vigorously. Not a rash, I insisted, why do you make it sound like a disease? Like something that eats at the skin. It should be a joy of weddings, a revel of weddings. A thrill of weddings, maybe. He laughs at my indignation. Some people might say marriage is a disease, love, no matter what you think of it. He tweaks my nose.

But you don’t, do you, I ask, and only he knows me so well that he can hear the soft imploring note in my voice. He leans down and stares into my eyes, until I blush and smile and fidget just a little bit. It’d be a disease if I marry anyone else, he replies, and I can’t help but laugh until his mouth comes down onto mine and kisses my silly worries away.

(fiction[by]me)