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Romantica

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“Say, Chris...”

Light snoring.

“Chris?”

“Mm?”

“Need to tell you somethin'.”

A sigh.

Then...

"What now?"

“Well, to be honest, I...”

Silence.

More silence.

More light snoring.

“Hey!”

Discordant sound of bed-springs squeaking.

“God damn! Your feet are cold!”

Chris!...”

“And one of us has to work tomorrow..”

“Chris, I was thinkin'.”

A longer sigh.

“Do you always have to do that in the middle of the night?”

“Do what?”

Unintelligible mumble. “Make it fast then. Stage leaves in four hours.”

“Well, it's been nearly four years now...”

“And...?”

“...and I was watchin' young Lucy Baker and that beau of hers dancin' at the shindig tonight.”

“And..?”

“Couldn't help but notice you smilin', y'know, that way you sometimes do, just with your eyes.”

“Was not.”

“Was.”

Another sigh.

“Okay, so what if I was?”

“Well, that got me to thinkin'.”

“Again...”

“And I've decided it's high time..”

“High time? High time for what?”

“Y'know...”

“No. I. Don't. Know. But it sure sounds like I'm goin' to know soon..” Resigned exhalation. “Okay, shoot.”

“Reckon it's time for me to court you.”

Choking sound. “Wha...?”

“Y'know, the works. The whole kit and caboodle. Holdin' hands in the moonlight. Flowers. Hearts.”

Long silence.

“Chris?”

Shaky exhalation.

“No point.”

“No point to what? ...Chris?”

“Flowers. Make me sneeze.”

“So, no flowers then.”

Chuckle.

“And as for holdin' hands...” Unidentifiable sound. “What d'you think we're doin' right now?”

Badly disguised snort. “Well, that's not exactly holdin' hands, but..”

“So that just leaves hearts.”

“Yeah, so it does.” Tentatively. “So... what about hearts?”

“Well, that's a complete waste of time..”

Silence. “Yeah, guess you're..”

“Because you had mine at “.. I'll ride along with you...”

Silence.

More silence.

Then...

“Aw...” Sound of bedclothes rustling.

Sound of a very sloppy kiss.

“Don't push it, friend.” Sound of loud smack.

“Hey! But Chris, you're so...”

“Romantic?” Soft laughter. “I know. Now go back to sleep, before I make you.”

“That a promise?”

“No.” More soft laughter. “That's an iron-clad guarantee.”