When we go to the art museum and sit on the steps and drink tea (me) and hot chocolate (you), we sit on the steps, feeling a little cold and tired in the way that you feel when you’ve slept too many hours, and we are both very happy, happier than we’ve ever been. We’d bought those drinks from a place that I said reminded me of driving to high school with my father and listening to Abbey Road, which was the album that you and I listened to last night while fucking because you said you wanted music and my thoughts were much too excited to do anything more than click “play” on iTunes, which organizes the albums alphabetically, and Abbey Road comes at the top alphabetically. I lean into your shoulder and feel like I am not alone finally, and I love you so much more than every stupid boy who has ever seen a stupid movie or heard a stupid song has ever pined after a stupid girl, more than every stupid girl who has loved a stupid boy who is too popular for her at a high school dance. We make plans to go to a farmers’ market, buy corn with cumin and butter, get some berries to keep in my fridge. I tell you that I would bring you white roses if you lived on the moon, in summer, and if dandelions, or sunflowers, were what you preferred, I would go back again and gather you some more.