She came to him as he read. Always a book that smelled. “I liked them, but can you change a few words.”
“Change? Which ones? Why?” He didn’t put the book down. She knew from experience that he was in fact paying attention. He could converse and read at once, and honestly focus on each. Still, it bothered her.
“Like this one, the bit about your core.”
“You don’t like ‘core’? I think it’s well-chosen.”
“It sounds scientific. Love is in your heart, not your core. It makes me think of geology class.”
“See, that’s good. That’s a metaphor. If that’s what comes to mind, our love is like a planet then. Large. Solid. Life-supporting. Etc. ‘Heart’ is a dead metaphor. It is so used that there’s no room for ambiguity. You might as well say ‘I love you a lot’.”
“Also apple core. That’s trash.”
“Trash with seeds. One day our bodies will be consumed, but the love is there. Seeds also suggest children.”
“I still don’t like it. If you say ‘core’ I am going to quote Nicholas Sparks.”
“Then I will not love you and will not say ‘core’ because I won’t marry you.”
“What if the priest asks you first?”
He puts the book down. “Any right-thinking priest would declare such a union null and void.”
“Fine. You can keep core.” He put the book down. That’s all she really wanted.