In all your glorious weirdness

“Have you ever fantasized about the two us together, as a couple?”
“What sort of question is that, please?”
“Why? Sorry.”
“Well, you are only asking that to gain self-confidence and… because the thought turns you on, but there is no feeling behind it.
“Maybe.” (Silence) “Don’t know, really. But still, have you?”
“The stupid bitch I am, I always tell you the truth.”
“There is no other way to go.”
The candle flickers.
“Yes, the thought has entered my mind.”
“Really?”
“You sense that I’m attracted to you, and I do admire you. And I guess I see you the way you are, in all your glorious weirdness… because let’s face the fact, you are effin weird. And still, I think I could love you with all I have.”
(And it’s not fair to ask such things because I’m on the verge of it, damn you – I silently add while I cover myself with a towel.)
“Oh.”
“But you see, the question is something else. The question is something you may not want to hear: could you love me? Because I’m not a martyr, and only open my heart wide if it won’t be broken to pieces.”

This is, of course, always one of those last things a person says before the world crumbles down.