“You know, you’re very pretty,” that guy from my frat said as we waited for drinks.
I chuckled and looked over my shoulder at him, “that’s it? You’re not terribly poetic, you know.”
“Oh, come on, Ivy,” he feigned dismay. “I do science. I don’t do overtures. You want a metaphor, fine? You’re as pretty as a Diels-Adler reaction.”
“A what?”
“A Diels-Adler reaction. It’s when…” From here, he explained something scientific that went completely over my head. Noticing my confusion, he cut himself off and said, “it’s really pretty. There. There’s your metaphor.”
I moved up closer to the bar and shook my head, “that’s a simile.”
“Okay, Ivy, okay, a simile,” he placed his hand on my hip. “You’re pretty like a barium cloud.”
“That’s another simile."
"It’s beautiful, I promise,” he said and used his free hand to grab me a drink.
I smiled, “I’ll take your word for it.” I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
I guess we all have our own sorts of poetries.