I am fourteen again when my boyfriend of four years tells me that I am "the bomb."
A "munchkin bomb," to be exact, because I apparently resemble an exploding donut... or midget. Maybe I am just a small bomb?
I haven't figured this out yet.
Yes, he says, I am the bomb. I am cool. I am Cute. He likes my smile, and I'm the entire package. The entire explosive package. And I hold his hand, mine.
I don't know what a "munchkin bomb" is, and I've decided not to ask. I like his clever pet names; endearing and sweet. Nonsensical, no doubt, but isn't love, sometimes?
