(Because Catching Fire just came out on DVD)
Like food poisoning, my love for you came on suddenly and without forewarning.
There I was sitting in a crowded theatre of tween girls and I found myself squealing in decibels I’ve only believed to be in a gerbil’s register.
My mind quickly replayed Catching Fire staring me, in a side braid and cargo pants:
(I’m practicing my archery skills in the backyard on some soda cans I’ve lined up on a fence. I shoot. Miss. Hit a stray cat that happens to be walking by. It shrieks, dies. My depth perception and prescription are clearly far worse than Katniss’. YOU appear.)
YOU: It’s almost time to go. The lady with the hair the color of cotton candy is here. Her dress is made out of butterflies.
(You stare out into the woods to avoid eye contact. I notice you are carrying a bag of freshly baked cookies.)
ME AS KATNISS: I love a man that brings me baked goods.
(You continue to avoid eye contact. I clear my throat, put down my bow, walk over to you.)
ME AS KATNISS: We’re going to have to continue to act like we’re in love.
(You turn, look at me. I can see in your eyes that you weren’t pretending the first time and are hurt that you thought I was.)
ME AS KATNISS: But I won’t be acting anymore.
PEETA: But what about that other guy who is actually significantly taller than me and used to date Miley Cyrus?
ME AT KATNISS: I want to be the hummus to your Peeta.
(You give me a cookie. I eat it. You look at me. I look at you. My insides melt like a popsicle in the Sahara. Then we run away and start an underground bakery in another district.)
You should know—surely you must know—I would never, ever, date anyone shorter than me.
But yet here you are, 5’6 and I’m 5’10 and we’ll make it work.
As long as you keep bringing me baked goods WE’LL MAKE IT WORK.
Until the next movie comes out and/or I finally read the third book to figure out what finally happens to you,
PS. I may or may not have a torrid relationship history with fictional characters.