Loving him is the most bizarre thing, she thought. And bizarre always reminded her of big birds like the Roc from Sinbad.
But that wasn’t quite it, no.
She thought of marmalade sizzling on a pan over the fire and breaking and melting into tiny bits and then boiling into tiny bubbles, popping quick and nimble. Quietly but growing louder over the heat. Which would then join into a large bubble and slowly rise and rise and rise over the pan and swallow the whole world, engulfing into a vacuum of sweetening sour and finally explode into one million tiny pink and blue balloons amid twelve thousand upward parabolas on human faces.
That’s what loving him was like, she thought as she fell into his arms, exhausted. That’s what loving him was like in one breath. “Aaaaaa,” she exclaimed as he crushed her. It was only a reflex but he teased her with it through all the monkey bars. So she played the drums on his face. Da da da da dum dum dum tish tish tish pa da da dum!
Upward parabolas, yeah. Are the best.