Superman

When we went on our first date, we walked about Seattle Center and you wished aloud that you had enough money to take me to the top of the Space Needle. I never told you that the one time I was there, I had contemplated jumping over.

You tried to take my hand, but instead you touched my butt and blamed it on your new contacts.

When I tired of answering your questions about me. When I had finished embarrassing myself by talking so much about penguins and vampires I asked about you. I don’t remember everything you said but it evolved into an explanation as to why Boeing makes better airplanes than Airbus.

You never pointed out that I said let’s ride the roller coaster just one more time four times ago.

You don’t prefer Matt to Chance, your real first name. You just reserve Chance for a few. I am one of the few.

You tell me you love my movies even though I know you don’t.

You could repay my bluntness with your own and you never do.

You don’t tell me to shut up, even though you should.

You want me to be a lawyer and you want your wife to be a mother at home and you refuse to recognize the conflict.

When you are making airplanes and I am making cases, will we remember our childrens’ faces?

You don’t have the temperament to argue. I don’t have the temperament to not.

We should grow old together. We should die together on the swing on our front porch while talking about our grandchildren.

On that first night I knew. If you had the money and if I had jumped, you would catch me.

But what you don’t know is that you are the reason I would no longer want to jump.

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