Sunset

It's summer, and we're sitting on your front porch, eating popsicles, and wishing on dandelions.  Our tongues and lips are numb and cherry red, and we're laughing.  All of a sudden, you pause, and look at me.  "Do you think we'll ever get married?" you ask me.  I laugh, and take your hand.  "I'll marry you if you want to marry me."  You laugh, too.  "Eventually."  You pick a dandelion, and brush the fluff on my nose.  It tickles, and I giggle.  "But what about kids?" I ask.  "You told me you never wanted kids."  You smile, and kiss my forehead.  "I'll have kids with you."  "Two kids," I say.  "Twins."  "A girl and a boy, one like me, and one like you."  "Meaning, of course, one gorgeous baby, and one ugly one."  I slap your arm, and kiss your popsicle-stained mouth.  "Silly.  They'll both be gorgeous."  "Do you think you could suck all the ugly out of one child, and put it into another, or just throw it all away?" you muse.  "Probably, with DNA and all.  But we wouldn't have to do that.  Our kids will be perfect."  "Just like you."  You trace a tendril of hair curling around my ear.  "And you."  I touch your long eyelashes with my fingertips.  "And us."  You put your arm around me, and draw me close.  The sun is setting, glorious and vibrant, and there are children riding bikes and rollerskating on the sidewalk in front of your house.  I look at you, and your eyes mirror my love for you.  I kiss the tip of your nose, and whisper, "I love you," as we sit together on the porch steps, looking out at our world.