Wing Play

On our first date, I asked what you like to watch. You said hockey. You asked what I like to read. I told you books about romance and dragons and men with bat wings. You teased me about “wing play.” But when you got home that night, you bought a magic potion from Etsy that’s supposed to make you fly. And after a few days, black knobs appeared on your back. On our second date, you proudly showed me the tiny, membranous wings sprouting from your shoulder blades. “They’ll get bigger,” you said. And they did. Now, you fly me to work each morning, and I spend my nights wrapped in your velvety chiropteran embrace. You hunt for beetles and midges while I sleep and drop them on my pillow as gifts. In the summer, you bring me strawberries illegally plucked from the neighbor’s garden. You use your wings to shield me from sun and rain and snow. You don’t tease me about wing play anymore, you just play. You could buy another potion from eBay or Amazon or somewhere to get rid of your wings — I know they’re cumbersome. But you don’t. I put a reminder in my notes app to learn more about hockey.