the language of love

Last night we lay in bed reading, the boy with a gigantic programming tome propped up on his chest and I, curled up with a paperback of Diablo Cody’s stripper memoir. I was wading through some pretty graphic descriptions of things I’d just as soon never have a first hand knowledge of when it occurred to me that my beloved was talking. I glanced up to see him looking at me, waiting for my answer.

“I’m sorry, hon. What did you say? I was reading about lap dances.”

“Uh… well, I was reading about picking up chicks. So there.”

“Oh, really? In what language?”

“…. C Sharp.”

“Mmm hmmm. I thought so.”

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