All she ever said, all he ever said, all they ever said together was “gorgonzola” and the rain came and blew all their leaves away. And with tears in her and pleading streaks of madness, she whispered, “gorgonzola” and with a tight-lipped sincerity and an utter devotion to “truth”, he spoke: “gorgonzola”. with her eyes bugging and her face flushed and a crazy tingling on the edges, she chortled, “gorgonzola”. this time his hands were clutching whitely the edge of his wooden chair and his face was growing warm and he felt his grip on things slipping as he stammered, “gorgonzola”. and she laughed and laughed and laughed and chuckled and giggled and with tears streaming just barely managed to get out, “gorgonzola”. and with a rictus grin he shouted and screamed and though mostly incoherent it was quite clear that it was “gorgonzola”. and so she left, without another “gorgonzola” between them.
I like cheese ok? Also the word “gorgonzola”. I guess what I was struggling (and possibly failing?) to get at here is how what words people say doesn’t matter so much as how they say them. I had this idea, when I was a kid, that if I could just find the right words to say, I mean, the exact right ones, then everything would be ok. I think I was probably struggling to find an exit to that concept (not a helpful one for the anxiety-prone!).
If I were to do this over (and I won’t) I think I’d probably dial down the drama for something a little more subtle. I’d still keep the word “gorgonzola” though.