I asked you three questions.

“What’s your favorite candy? Whiskey or wine? Are you afraid of heights?”

That night, I knocked on your door with a bag of Jolly Ranchers and a bottle of Merlot. We took a drive to the sea and laid a blanket atop a grassy cliff that served as front row seats to the sunset. I was nervous that you thought it would be too much, or not enough — and those nerves kept me quiet and scared.

The salt of the ocean climbed up the cliff and ran up our bodies. The grass grew through the blanket and caressed our backs as our feet flirted with the empty space that led to the ocean. The waves danced to the song of the winds and the clouds nestled their warm bodies around the moon. The stars won the war against the city lights that night. The world around us was doing its part.

I open the bottle of wine and things began to move.
The first swig led to the first Jolly Rancher. We blindly grabbed one from the bag. There was purple in our palms and disgust on our faces.

“What are the odds,” I said.
And I threw my medicine flavored candy up to the moon and down into the ocean.

“I never took stats,” you said. And you threw your medicine flavored candy up to Mars and down into the ocean. “But I did play baseball.” 

Things continued to move.
I told you I wish you had answered whiskey instead of wine; you told me we probably just killed two fish. Your sweaty hands told me you were afraid of heights; my hands told you that I wouldn’t let you fall.

And as the night moved around us and we moved with it, we continued to feed the Pacific with purple Jolly Ranchers — occasionally justifying our pollution with spurious statistics about symbiotic relationships with the ecosystem and sugary snacks. We were being silly.
And we lay there chatting and laughing until we both decided we were too drunk to be falling in love that close to the edge of a cliff.