She had never known anyone quite as annoying. He was wrong about everything. He’d point at the sky, offer up information about stars and planets like he was God. Like he was the one who put it all there. She’d correct him, her hands flying in every direction, “No, no, that’s not Orion’s belt! It’s over there.” He’d huff, move onto the next subject. He was so wrong. He was wrong! All the time, she couldn’t believe how wrong he was.
He would spout off Steinbeck quotes, and they were never actually Steinbeck. He thought Tina Fey wore glasses to look cool and doubted the moon landing. He said Einstein was a hack and all the poems she loved the most were ridiculous and overreaching. She’d never known someone who could twist up her stomach and undo the knots every time he looked at her. She wanted to scream, “You’re always wrong!” And she knew he’d say, “So what makes you right?”
But his eyes were the color of moss. And when she was just a little girl, she loved the woods. She got lost exploring them. Lost in the woods, in the moss, in how wrong he was, in how right his eyes felt when they looked back into hers.
“You infuriate me!”
“I love you.”
“You don’t know what that even means. You don’t like any of the things I do!”
“Yes I do.”
“Name one thing.”
“You. We both love you.”
She had never known anyone quite as annoying. Maybe the most annoying, that he conducted her heart strings into a symphony she couldn’t quiet. She slept with a soundtrack of all the things he said, all the things he did, and how badly she wanted to tell him, “You’re so wrong!” for eternity.