Keeping the butter industry alive with my lovesickness

I’ve been covering myself in butter. Taking sticks of dairy and smearing them like sunscreen. Those hungry flies will come after me. Sooner or later. I’ve never learned how to say I love you. Even thinking of trying makes my blood curdle, aorta full of strawberry yogurt, and I doubt that Webmd has an article about that. So I keep my mouth shut. Every flutter in my stomach adds another ounce of butter. The brand doesn’t matter, but the spreadable kind works best on the face. When you say my name, I unfold another wrapper. When you send a text, I butterknife slice a tablespoon off and prepare for the inevitable. If you double text, or dare to triple, I spread a spoonful on my lips and pretend it’s a kiss. I know how weird this sounds. I know. My grocery bills have spiked. The cashier knows my name, and at this rate, I don’t know what to say to him. Hi Bill, I say, hiding my face. Bill says hi back and asks if I have a rewards card. He says it like he doesn’t already know the answer. I sigh with a no. Of course I don’t have one. That would be the reasonable thing to do and I don’t believe in being reasonable. I never have. I waddle out of the store like a duck full of shame, hands aching from those heavy bricks of dairy. I repeat I love you, I love you, I love you in my head, but my lips won’t form the sounds. My tongue said it’s taking a vacation day and who am I to argue? The more I think about it all, I really want to warn you: Don’t give me your heart, it will slip right out of my hands.