“Do you love me?”
“No.”
“Is it because I’m a man?”
“No.”
“Do you love her?”
“No.”
“But didn’t you tell me you wanted to get engaged to her?”
“No.”
“Are you just saying that now to soften the blow of not loving me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“Aha, I got you!”
“No.”
“You’re more agitated than usual tonight.”
“No.”
“Is that all you can say?”
“No.”
“Then say something else.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“I love you.”
“No.”
“How do you know how I feel? Are you me?”
“No.”
“Do you want to be me?”
“No.”
“Do you want to be with me?”
“No.”
“I thought we were at least friends.”
“No.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“…No.”
“You hesitated.”
“No!”
“Then here, why don’t you be with me?”
“…No.”
“You hesitated again.”
“…”
“Do you like that?”
“N…no.”
“Are you sure?”
“No…”
“I thought so. You told me you liked that before.”
“No…”
“Is your memory cloudy?’
“No.”
“You know what else you told me before? That I was the only person who could understand you. That I was the only one who saw you for who you really were inside. That you would stop the world if it meant keeping me near you until we were old and gray and fading away. You tell me lots of things when we’re alone, like now. And I will tell you now, that I love you. I love you so much that I put up with your stubbornness and your hateful ridiculousness because it’s better than being without you.”
“…”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”