Several chapters into Twilight, I already wanted to fall in love with a vampire. Silly I know, and cheesy, and juvenile, and completely preposterous for someone my age. For the longest time, I have tucked my vampire fantasies under the bed, convinced that they are nothing but spawns of the devil, hostile bloodsuckers- and of course, a byproduct of imaginative fiction. Well, they still are. Fangs or no fangs, perhaps, I’ll always be a giddy schoolgirl- both an amusing and embarrassing thought– even when I reach my osteoporosis age.
One evening, I wanted Chad to play along. We were in the living room.
Me: Are you a vampire?
Me: (slightly annoyed that he was nowhere near as elegant or as white as a vamp) Really? Well, you don’t look like one for sure. Vampires are pale. You’re too dark.
Chad: I am a vampire.
Me: I wish you were but you’re not.
Chad: I’m a burnt vampire.
I burst out laughing. There goes my romantic illusions.
Chad: I followed you into the sun. And that’s why I changed complexions.
How Supremely Cheesy. I wanted to punch him, because I actually turned to mush. Instead, I leaned forward.
Me: Well, you smell to good to be a burnt vampire.
I meant it, of course.