There was a whole mess of traffic in Brooklyn and no left turns and it took forever to get on the bridge, and I should have been more terrified by what he said.
“They should just kick out everyone who isn’t from here,” he declared, before realizing that that would mean I’d have to go. “Except you,” he corrects.
“What if I got deported?”
“I might have to marry you.”
“I’d think about it.”
Another day in the same car but on a different bridge, I claimed to have not kissed that many boys before him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he tells me, “ . . . as long as I’m the last one.”
He hears it the way it sounds to me, not quite how he meant.
These things come out as accidents, I know. He’s as cautious with this thing as I am, maybe more so. But the scariest thing of all is that these things he accidentally says, they don’t scare me so much at all.