“No, you need to listen,” I said automatically. Turns out he was confused by who’s who in Game of Thrones. Fair enough.
“We need to talk,” he said. I was perhaps taking my parenting skills a trifle too seriously.
“I don’t have time,” I said. He was trying to convince me to drink more. Fair enough.
We need to talk, about books with Mr. Perfect. There is no such creature. And if there was some sap out there brave enough to spout sweet nothings: “I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you,” or “You are my soul mate,” I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face, let alone want to show him my undies.
Fantasy pillow talk: (Woman lying in bed with hair in rolled up tube sock from YouTube tutorial who may have forgotten to brush her teeth.)
Prince Charming: “I adore you, you are mine, I can’t live without you, my beautiful everything.”
Normal pillow talk:
Real Guy: “Nice hair. Do you wanna?” (If he can make me laugh, he knows his odds are pretty-pretty good.)
“We need to talk.”
“How about I get you a cup of shut the eff up?”