On the Seriousness of Tourists #9

Kiss me!

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I don’t care that someone’s fanny pack is jamming into my ass; I don’t care you insisted on those sunglasses that remind me of that douchebag I dated in college; I don’t care that we are in this throng of annoyed tourists watching a clock and waiting for The Walk of the Apostles.  I don’t care.  Kiss me. I want to have this picture to remind me of us the next time we bicker about who left the coffeepot on.

You are carrying my sun block, my water bottle, my two, no three, guidebooks that we both know all say the same thing.  Yet you don’t complain, and if you do, you make fun of me with that lovelook in your eyes.  This morning,  you let me eat half your croissant and then you got me another filled with chocolate.  When I said I was fat, you told me I wasn’t—even though I am.  You let me finish your coffee.  You drank the last of the water only because you know I hate the water left at the bottom of a bottle.  And you tell me I’m not neurotic!  You hugged me and cracked my back in that museum.  I really needed my back cracked, and I didn’t even have to ask.  You didn’t care who saw.  Now please, kiss me!  You are my love.

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