"And even tho' we ain't got money,
I'm so in love with ya, honey..."
He sang these words to me while rowing us in a little dinghy. A dinghy is a small boat, but it's also a funny word that sounds like a you-know-what.
We had both been talking about how we were broke. It was a glorious night in a big city that had a bay in it. We were in that bay, in that dinghy.
It had been there in a cluster of dinghies floating in the dark, at the edge of the ghetto part of the bay. The people who live on their crappy boats farther out use the dinghies to get to their bobbing, creaking homes. No one guards the dinghies, so we had taken ours for free.
It was wild. We were both a little drunk. He was rowing us, gliding us across the water, which was black with red and green sparkles on it, reflections of the city lights.
It was a wild, crazy time, just after the Great Recession had started to eff up people's lives, and I was out of a job, and he said that it didn't matter, and that he loved me. He loved me even tho' we ain't got money.
He pretended we were in Venice, in a gondola, and he sang to me in fake Italian, too.
It was wild and crazy and romantic. Except that I didn't love him back, because he was a toothless old wino, and I was not a toothless old wino, and I just wanted to make it back to the shore alive.