Dramatic Script

As we entered my room some hitherto unknown internal prompt brought about the spontaneous enactment of a dramatic script.

Why are you fighting me? he asked, with a peculiarly weary intonation.

I’m not! I returned, with genuine surprise. I only wanted to prove that I was ready, willing, and able, to love him completely.

He lay on the single bed in my room and, looking at me in deep earnest,  asked:  What is it that I can give you?

This seemed to be an offer – of what I could only guess at – and  I was thankfully spared the possibility of making an inappropriate reply because it seemed my proscribed response was set in stone. I recited it in relief:

The only thing I have ever wanted

He puzzled me then by asking:

How do I know you won’t hurt me?

It was a question that seemed to require evidence of some kind. I failed to understand (the facts but not the implications) as I uttered it, but my committed response was that:

I’ll do it.

What would I do; did either of us know and could we even have guessed?

I was aware of a desire to spare him pain, but I did not know of what and could not allow doubt or fear to creep into my countenance for the immediate scene was to be continued without pause for reflection. As he considered the answer I handed him a magical book to read, opened onto a passage about the nature of love. He it and then looked at me with a more seriously respectful expression, which I had not seen him wear before.

That book is amazing