Fingers gripping Flynn’s shirt, I tug on the material and pull us both to a stop.
He looks down at me in curiosity, and I nod toward the inside of the park. His gaze follows my line of vision until he spots the tents and the small crowd of people, and then he meets my eyes again.
“Can we go?”
“To a carnival?”
I nod. “I have to at least get one of those funnel cakes.”
“What’s a funnel cake?”
I blink three times. “I’m sorry, did you just ask me what a funnel cake is? As in, you’ve never had one?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never had a funnel cake?” I question again, and he shakes his head on a soft chuckle.
His eyes narrow, and I know him well enough now to know they’re saying, “How many times do I need to answer this question?”
“Holy shit, Flynn!” I exclaim. “We have to fix this ASAP!”
“But what about the pancakes you were going on about?”
I shrug. “We can grab some after.”
His health-conscious mind is shocked. I can see the question written all over him. “Pancakes after funnel cake?”
“It’s Saturday, Flynn. And we can do and eat whatever the hell we want on Saturdays because calories don’t count on the weekends.”
He laughs at that, and I take it upon myself to grab his hand and pull him toward a tent that has the words Funnel Cakes written across the front of it.
We only have to stand in line for a few minutes before we pay the kind man with the rotund belly ten bucks for two funnel cakes. And once the paper plates filled with the greasy dough and covered in powdered sugar are in our hands, Flynn looks at me like I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
“You are going to eat that cake, and you are going to love it,” I state with an index finger toward him. “I don’t care that you’re Mr. I Like To Eat Healthy. Today, you’re going to cheat it the hell up and savor the greasy deliciousness of a funnel cake with me.”
I’ve watched the routine way in which Flynn almost never misses a workout at the gym and selectively chooses his meals and snacks. Basically, most of what he puts into his body is devoid of processing and is packed with the kinds of nutrients that would make my family physician back in Vancouver sob out of happiness.
And if he does go the processed food route? Well, you best believe the next few meals will be clean with a capital C.
Flynn just shakes his head, but I don’t miss the whisper of a smile on his lips.
Yeah, he’s going to eat this cake and like it. I don’t care if I have to pry his mouth open and shove in each bite. There is no human being alive who should snub their nose at a funnel cake.
“You know, babe,” he says and takes my free hand to guide us over to an empty bench. “When it comes to food, you’re kind of bossy.”
“Because food is important, Flynn,” I state and sit down in the empty spot beside him. “Everyone needs to eat. It is the foundation on which our bodies grow.”
He eyes me with a knowing look. “This funnel cake is the foundation of a heart attack.”
“If you eat too many. Everything in moderation.”
He laughs and surprises a squeal out of me by pulling me into his lap. His lips are near my ear, and he whispers, “You like having the last word. Love it, even.”
“What?” I press my nose against his and stare into his eyes. “No, I don’t.”
He smirks and steals a kiss. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“Of course you don’t mind. You barely talk.”
He winks. “And you talk enough for the both of us.”
“Just shut up and try the funnel cake.” And with that, I tear off a piece of his funnel cake and all but shove it into his mouth. His surprised laughter blows powdered sugar into my face, which creates a domino effect of giggles.
“You like it?” I ask once I catch my breath, but more laughs leave my lips when I realize just how much powdered sugar has managed to get all over Flynn’s face.
“I love it. Greasy, sugary, full of fat. A true foundation of nutrients, like you said,” he responds cheekily and tears a piece of funnel cake from his plate. But he doesn’t put it to his lips. Nope. He takes a page from my book and rubs the cake across my cheek before pressing it against my lips.
“Here, babe. Have a bite.”
I snort. “What the hell?”
“Oh, that’s not how you eat funnel cakes? You don’t shove them in each other’s faces? I was just following your lead.”
“You’re such a smartass,” I retort, but yeah, I also take that bite because funnel cake. Everyone and their mother loves funnel cake.
And you really love funnel cake when you’re eating it with Flynn. Come to think of it, there’re starting to be a lot of things you really love with him…
Sunday, May 12th
Flynn
Daisy is a bed hog. Covers, sheets, comforter, pillows, she will steal it all. I know this because ever since she moved in with me, I wake up with my head flat on the mattress and my body completely bare of anything.
With a fresh cup of coffee in my hand, I step into the bedroom and note the ridiculous way that my wife is wrapped up in the comforter like a human burrito and how her tiny body manages to take up most of the king-sized mattress.
I smile at the scene as I step closer to the bed and take her in. Her wild curls fan out over the three pillows beneath her head, and her eyelashes flutter ever so slightly, as if she’s still sleeping but also still close to waking up.
This woman. She’s absurdly adorable.
The soft sounds of music from one of my favorite operas play through the Bluetooth speakers of my apartment, and I carefully sit on the bed beside Daisy. Coffee lifted closer to her face, I wait for her brain to make sense of the familiar scent.
It doesn’t take long. Daisy loves coffee. It’s her morning go-to.
Her green eyes open slowly and meet mine. They look almost emerald in the light of the day, shimmering like gemstones beneath the rays of the sun that have filtered in through the window.
“Morning, babe.”
“Morning,” she rasps through a still-sleepy voice and clears her throat. A hint of a smile lifts her mouth when she glances down at the cup in my hand. “Is that coffee?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“Nope.”
“What?” she questions and sits up in bed. The comforter falls down her body, revealing miles upon miles of gloriously naked skin.
“I’m kidding,” I say with a small grin and carefully hand the fresh cup of joe to her.
She grabs it greedily with two hands and takes a sip. “Oh, that’s good. That’s real good. And made to perfection. Thank you.”
I know it’s made to perfection. Two sugars with a little creamer, that’s Daisy’s preferred coffee style. After living together for a while now, I know more about Daisy than I’ve ever known about anyone. Her little quirks, her favorite foods, the fact that when she says she’ll be ready in ten minutes, it really means thirty.
“What are you listening to?”
“‘Un bel dì, vedremo.’”
She tilts her head to the side, and a wry grin covers her mouth. “I’m sorry…what?”