I just might say yes, if he is beautiful and his words are melodic underneath an strange accent. if he promises wondrous adventures and nights on sandy beaches beneath the stars. if he shows me a picture of graceful dancers in Rio, and lets me taste a sweet, ripe Brazilian fruit.

when I wipe that juice off my chin and look into those dark, mysterious eyes, the only word coming out of my mouth would be "yes".

When we get a flat tire in Arizona and he is tired and hungry and hot and cant get the spare on and he’s getting angry about having to buy a new tire, I make him take a break for water and canned peaches.

We sit on the side of the road in the literal middle of nowhere. In all directions, the ground shimmers in the 100 degree heat and we are both dripping with sweat. Poor Lula is panting hard, even in the shade of the car. I pour some of my water into her mouth, too tired to get a bowl. We sit in silence for a moment while he eats his peaches and I use a plastic spoon on a bruised kiwi, getting more of it on the ground than in my mouth. He stares at the spare tire resting against the car, looking too small and too black in the middle.

“Stupid people leaving nails lying in the middle of the interstate,” he mumbles, scraping the bottom of the can with a screech of the fork.

He hasn’t shaved in a few days and the stubble on his cheeks pokes out.

sometimes he is so similar to my father that it scares me, and I wonder if I should maybe end it. but one advantage to the similarity is that I know how to deal with him, from years of watching my mom.

I reach forward and turn his face towards me. “hey,” I tell him, waiting until he meets my eyes. I want to laugh, because he’s so dramatic. But I don’t, because I know he takes himself too seriously, especially right now. “This is just a thing, you know? We are gonna fix this tire and find that next camping spot. And tomorrow we’re gonna pack up our stuff and find a tire shop, and pay 60 bucks for a new tire and it wont mean anything. Okay?”

He nods, and forces a smile. But it must not be not completely forced, because he gets up, takes a drink of water, and says, “let's get this fuckin tire on,” and claps his hands.

I smile for real. Lula watches us as we count down and heave the tire onto the car, finally hearing the click as it engages. I hold up my hands for a high five when we’re done and he claps them enthusiastically.

Maybe he's not really like my dad. At least he can be happy after being down. That’s what I love about him, and also what I worry about, and groan about. But it is what it is, and I cant change him. I can just work around it and work with it to make us both happier.

Dark eyes reflect the colorful leaves strewn about the yard. Her voice is authoritative, her mouth turned up in a smile. She instructs me to pick up the driest leaves, and leave the wet ones where they are. We run around, the crisp air turning our cheeks rosy but keeping our hearts warm. Tiny hands bring armfuls of leaves to the ground in front of the swing set until the pile is soft and spongy.

She wants to go first, but offers me the first jump, and helps push me in the swing until I am soaring, almost touching the leaves that remain on the tree above us. My nose is running but I don’t even notice. My fearless heart allows my hands to unclench from the rough, fraying string that holds the swing. I swing backwards for the last time, and as I rise above the sea of orange and red below me, I use my momentum to push off of from the swing, falling for a moment before crashing down among the leaves.

The ground is harder than I expect, and when I land, leaves flying up around my face, the breath is briefly knocked out of my lungs.

I regain it though, when I see her running towards me, her eyes bright and her arms open wide. Without warning, she jumps and I barely move my arm in time for her fall down beside me among the damp leaves.

We are both giggling, and she lies back into the soft pile, pulling my hand so that I lie with her. I feel so content then, and inside my chest, my heart swells with love for this brave girl who has told me that we are best friends.

She blows a leaf off her face and moves her arms and legs back and forth, a leaf angel forming underneath her small body. I imitate her, and look up to the bright blue sky above us, our combined joy radiating up to the highest leaf on the tree.

When a raindrop lands, it does not miss the feeling of free falling through the air, weightless and hurtling towards nothing in particular, easily blown off course by a gust of wind. When it lands on a window, and begins to feel the effects of gravity once more, it looks down at the ground with longing, knowing that the soil is there and waiting to fold it up in a warm, earthy embrace. It races towards that embrace with a hope not unlike that of a small child.

I had never been in love before. So I didn't really know what to expect, or how I would know that I was in love.

He got really sick in January. It was before we were living together, and I called him in the morning before leaving for work. He didn’t pick up, but I thought he was in the shower. On the subway I tried again, and there was no answer. The second the clock in the bakery hit 11:00 I tore off my apron and ran out the door to the subway, barely managing to catch one before the doors closed. He still had not answered his phone. When I arrived at the apartment, it smelled like stuffiness and sick and I found him crouched on the bathroom floor.

I gave him a cool washcloth and a glass of water, took his temperature and tucked him into bed with the trash bin by the nightstand, promising to come back in a few hours.

When I got back and his temperature was above 104, his skin pale and clammy, I helped him out of bed, and very slowly we made our way out the door and down the 5 flights of stairs to the garage. We drove to the emergency room and I held his head in my lap under the bright white lights as he groaned and mumbled nonsense in Spanish and English and Portuguese about unicorns and French toast.

It made me sick to watch him disappear with the doctors through the double doors, leaving me sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair all alone. I remember being so worried about him I couldn’t even think straight. I think that's how I knew.

When a friendly old doctor came over to me to tell me I could see him, I actually hugged him before dashing inside.

The first time we said I love you was there, in the hospital, me crouched by his bedside, our hands intertwined.