Bob* and I are reading Laura Ingalls Wilder’s These Happy Golden Years. Bob is eight. Love is icky; kissing, unspeakable.

In tonight’s chapter, Almanzo just kissed Laura and gave her a ring.

Bob handled it as best he could, hands over his ears, wincing until it was over.

Then, we both pretended to vomit into a bucket next to the bed.

*Bob’s real name is something else; for some reason he thinks the name ‘Bob’ is hilarious.