Deal With The Devil

Want.

What a broad verb it was. Very generalizing, very direct, oftentimes even… a little dishonest. See, when I was younger, I used that word for a lot of things. On some days, I'd even get -

"Don't stop to contemplate on it!" Irene rudely interjected, snapping her fingers right between my eyes. "It's a yes or no question, and you got a 50/50 chance of answering it poorly. It's a very easy 50/50 as well, so not even you can screw this up, I'm sure."

"Irene," I began, forming a very painful grimace. "Listen… you're beautiful, okay? I can't even deny that fact if I try, I'm like instinctively obligated to drool all over you."

She raised her head, leering a pair of narrow eyes at me suspiciously. "Go on…"

"And any guy would be lucky to have you. Heck, I'd be lucky to have you."

"Mmm-hmm."

"But..."

"But?"

"That's not a question I'm willing to answer just yet, because you're not you right now, and I - "