Composting cutesy foo-foo

Bernard hates word fat. Given my loquacious love affair with language, seeing the word “excessive” scribbled in the margin was no surprise. Still, I was disappointed that my romantic musings were being banished and sent to foreign lands. Forever. Take, for example, the big “X” through this paragraph:

It is a funny thing, we have. The distance between us might be measured by unkissed kisses, millions of kisses, which would happen in auburn moments, in unturned moments, in a parallel world. Maybe, in that world, he is younger and I am older, maybe I am a man and he a woman, we are unisex creatures, we are aliens, we are little-love-making-mongrels and our tongues meet each other warmly like apple pie in the wintertime, maybe a la mode.

Oh yes, I know: it’s a complete waste of space. It soothes me with the sticky taste of imagination, but doesn’t strengthen the sensation of “what if” that feeds the story. Alas, I deleted the rot, but then decided to paste it here, so the rambly little words wouldn’t feel so rejected—now they are less like trash, more like compost. And, of course, I did it for Emily, whom I miss already….