HIM .. Joe Goldberg

LOVE

OH, JOE. You truly spent your hard earned money on me? I can't imagine Mooney pays much, yet you still treat me with the little you make, and my heart melts and tears brim my eyes and I let my purse fall from my chest and dangle from my elbow. You smile at my scrubs and the little flowers that dot them because I'm too quirky for regular scrubs and you know that and love it. Oh, Joe. Joe, Joe, Joe. You spent money on me?

I'm grinning as I walk to you. Knife? What knife? This is just me, checking back in, trying to grab my book before my shift starts at New York Presbyterian. I'm wholesome. I save lives, Joe. I'm a nurse, I can take care of you.

"Awh! I was scared you might forget, thank you!"

"I also noticed the review on the website. You wrote that?"

I hold out my palms. "Guilty as charged."

"Thank you. Mostly, uptight douches write reviews when they're pissed. It's refreshing to read something different."

I could cry because you're so perfect and you read my review less than twenty-four hours after it was posted and all of this is so real, Joe. Don't you feel it, too? Of course you do. You're precious, an innocent soul with a heart made of depth. Oh, Joe. You paid for my book? I love you so much.

"Can't lie, I noticed some of the harsh stuff." I leap onto the counter and sit on the edge, and you take an initial step back like you were preparing me to jump on the other side and start oral. It's okay, baby. Not now. Later. I cross my legs, smile at you. I look so picturesque, you're imagining painting me. Without any clothes on, of course. You're a dirty boy, aren't you, Joe?

I carefully drop my purse on the floor, making sure it didn't tip over. I would place it between us, show you that I have nothing to hide except maybe a pack of cigarettes (do you mind smokers, Joe? I'm so sorry if you do, I can quit for you), except I do. I could be slick, but I wasn't sure how'd I explain a butcher's knife in my purse without sounding homicidal or suicidal.

Of course, at this point, our love is like a classic romcom starring Matthew McConaughey and Reese Witherspoon. I can make some wacky claim, maybe even tell the truth in a way that it seems like a lie, and you'd laugh it off and look at my lips and my neck and my collarbone and picture the climatic scene when we finally make love.

But I don't want to risk it. I love you too much, Joe. We can save the shenanigans for later, when we're alone in my apartment.

"Eye-raped?" I rephrase, and you laugh. That's a foul one for you, huh? Enough that you know the exact review that I'm talking about. It's okay, it was hard for me to read, too. But I make it into a joke and I smirk and say, "Naughty naughty," wagging my finger back and forth.

"Is it bad that I know exactly what you're talking about?" I'm right. What else am I right about, darling? You're still chuckling and it's fucking adorable. "Okay, it may just be me, but eye-raped seems a bit harsh. I mean, I thought I was just being polite. Don't people like when workers are tentative?" Don't doubt yourself, Joe. You're perfect.

"People love to throw around words that they don't know the meaning of," I say, "it's okay. I don't think you eye-raped me."

You totally did, but unlike that prude bitch, I liked it.

You smile at me and this is great and we already have our own inside joke. "Thank you, that means a lot. I think?"

We giggle together and it sounds beautiful and I can't believe I ever imagined hurting you. You're a wonderful miracle in a lost world, someone who needs to be protected. You're magical, I feel the magnificent waves that radiate off your skin in loud echoes, and it burns my own banal flesh with fierce, sensational flames. You're so powerful, Joe. Do you know that? I get goosebumps just when you glance at me.