He laughed at her, causing her to squint threateningly toward him, but it was in her fun way where she tucked in the side of her mouth to chew on her cheek. Her dying throes did not persuade him and his stubbornness and eventual bonk on the head made her sort of pouty in defeat.

"Fine..." she returned to his stern rebuke and she took hold of the journal and cracked it open to the previous page she had written on that night.

"Why do his lips control me? Always they are in my mind. I have dreams of him just kissing me in the rain, in the storms, in our apartment, on our bed. If I didn't love them they would gnaw my thoughts to the death, but I do so love them. Their touch to me is like the wind on the trees, the spring grass to a deer, and the blanket of snow to a child's hand. They are more part of me than my own, and I long to feel them tomorrow...and the next day...and the next after..." and she trailed off, closing the journal and placing it up above her head on the bench. There she lay there, arms extended over her head, awaiting her prize. If he denied her, she likely would tackle him, injuries or not.