“let’s go to Bali,” i said, and he looked up from his house of cards to offer me a quizzical glance, a question mark face.
“have you been reading that book again?” he asked, and i didn’t answer, just began to pad a barefoot dance across the cool tiled floor.
“no more books,” he teased. “they’re too dangerous for you.”
“fine, then, i said, extending one leg toward him and pointing my toes. “no more ice cream for you.”
“ice cream hardly invades our lives the way your books do,” he countered. “the last time this happened, i found myself on a red-eye excursion to discover exactly where Ophelia drowned. my chocolate indulgences don’t require you to bat an eyelash.”
“but the gelato in England was delicious, don’t you remember? you looooved it.” i leaned across the table and quickly blew over the gingerly constructed card cabin. “now, pack your bags. we leave in the morning.”
he stared at me incredulously.
“you’re impossible.”
i smiled sweetly.
“yes, possibly. but well-read.”