The Way to a Girl’s Heart
Duncan stretches to ease the butterfly from the drive-through window. He turns to me, all wistful like the poet he fancies himself. “Creature of beauty alight on my fingertip. Long I yearned for your wings to rest, your beauty mine to hold.”
“That’s sweet. Would you… Do you think maybe…” Taylor told me to try harder. It’s just a side of Duncan. I squirm under the pressure, but the comparison stinks. There’s nothing butterfly about me. That, and I’d rather not be owned by anyone. “My milkshake, Duncan. It’s ready.”
Maybe Taylor should tell Duncan milkshakes are more romantic than bad poetry.