The Connective Tissue

“Do you love me?” he asked for the hundredth time, as she twisted away, hips switching back and forth in black tights, hands white dangles from outstretched forearms. Doing what looked like a dance from some 60s Italian movie, while fixing him with a hard, glassy stare from under her jet black bangs.

“Of course I love you darling,” she said, quiet and docile. “I’m only going to marry you.”

“I would marry you,” he whispered back, as petals shook and fell from the spring trees of their courtyard garden. “If only I could.”

“You will,” she smiled back, “If only you want.”