We’d never talk about having kids because she doesn’t believe in planned parenthood.
There will always be an abundance of Stoli vodka in the house.
Though we’ll argue quite often, minutes later I’ll be allowed to claim I never said any of it.
She believes in outdated racial tropes. So being a black man, she’ll assume I’m swinging serious lumber.
Though she’ll be initially confused that I haven’t fathered and abandoned children with multiple women, it will eventually impress her that I fought off my genetic requirement to do so.
She’ll be allured by my air of mystery because I won’t talk about my days selling drugs — steadfastly refusing to believe that I never sold drugs.
She’ll feel such sympathy for me because I never knew my dad. When I point out that I saw my dad last month, she’ll pat me on my shoulder and say “Your real dad, sweetie.”
There will always be an abundance of white sheets in the house.
Without knowing anything about my finances, she’ll open a checking account for me so that I can stop going to those “check cashing places.”
She’ll tell me “Now you have a place to put all of your Obamacare money.”
She’ll treasure our relationship because — according to phone calls with her mom — dating me makes her a patriot.
She read a news story on Facebook that convinced her contact with my skin will keep her looking youthful into her 50’s.
She believes having sex with me is considered reparations.
She believes having sex with me entitles her to a tax break.
She believes having sex with me will finally get her the credits from that African Studies class she failed as an undergrad.
In steamy moments she’ll whisper “Make Amanda Groan Again.”
When she’s worried, I can easily calm her by reminding her “Everything’s gonna be alt right.”
She’ll get a kick out of using air-quotes when referring to “my job.”
She’ll read things to me, for reasons she believes are obvious.
She’ll encourage my writing, but warn that “the world doesn’t need another Moesha.”
She’s impressed by my Harvard degree because it shows I apparently have “mad photoshop skills.”
And thanks to recent events, I’d never have to watch The Devil Wears Prada again.