Three

It’s Saturday night, and we just crushed the Avs 5 to 3. Patty is over at my house now, and we are cuddling on my couch like normal people.

“My leetle snuggykins, wee are on ESPN again. And wee were in da paper dis morning. Dey made fun of us, t’ough, because I wee speek wit’ da accents. Isn’t dat awful?” he asks.

“No. We both have accents. Bad accents, too,” I answer. “I wish I French.”

“Really? Me too! But dat’s because I am Quebecois and it’s almost a law dere.” Stupid arrogant French-Canadian. I hate him. But I love him.

“No, I wish I French because French have good accents. Better than Czech people. But Czech people better.”

“Better dan wat?” he asks. He’s so dim.

“Better overall. Watch I speak with French accent now.” I clear my throat. “Bonjour, ma petite foofiedarling,” I say.

“Dat’s not speeking wit’ a French accent, dat’s speeking in French, le idiot. And I know, ‘cause I am fluent in da French language.”

“But you not speak Czech.”

“I don’t have to. I am not going to Czech-land anytime soon.” Stupid! Stupid!

“It not Czech-land. It Czech Republic, peecha.”

“Don’t call me dat. I love you.”

“You not act like it,” I retort.

“But I do…” he says. He slides off the couch and onto his knees—uh-oh. “I do love you, my darling Dom. My kissieschnookum. My booblesweetie. My wuddlemoopsiecakes. My doodlemush. My Domwoo, my Dommie, my Domaroni Domalicious Dimbobble Dom Dom,” he orates.

“Stop with names. You making me sound like woman.”

“You have da woman’s name,” he says. Huh?

“PATTY is woman’s name, stupid! Dominik is man’s name! I is a man!” I shout. Patty stands up. Oh, no.

“You s’ure about dat? I’ll show you a real man!” he shouts, tossing a pillow at me. I don’t want to go through with this rampaging-through-my-house business again. Last time he did it when he was mad at me he broke my pretty little vase. And a lamp. And he knocked down the framed picture of a cow.

Patty wanders through my house, shouting at me.

“You are da worst goalie dat I ever seen! You are a mean bad man! You have da ugliest pictures of cows on your walls dat I ever seen!” Oop, there goes my picture of a cow off my wall again. That’s a very nice picture! It was my pet cow when I was eight years old. I loved that cow, its name was Cow.

“No, Patty, you bad goalie because you lose today. Ha.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, now he looks pissed. And mean.

“You ARE DA MEANEST MAN I EVER KNEW! DA MEANEST STUPIDEST MAN! YOU SUCK, DOMINIK. I am not going to love you anymore.” Oh no!

“No, Patty, no! I not mean that! I love you! Please love me back?” I am so scared! What if he is telling the truth and he doesn’t love me anymore? I’ll die.

“Okay. I guess you can still be my darling snugalicious Dom-wom.” Oh, phew. I was scared there.

“I was scared there for minute. I thought you not love me ever again.”

“But I do, and you know dat, right?”

“Okay.”

I kiss him, and his face is warm and solid and comforting against my own. I would never, never want to live if he didn’t love me. Even though he has a funny accent and is mean sometimes, I still love him to little eensy-weensy bits and pieces.