You handed me an odd, ugly gray flower; you said you picked it up on the moon in 1139 (A.D., of course). I said, "Geez, you're drunk and reading WAY too much Vonnegut." You flashed me a cute, drunken smile. I decided the bloom (using the term very loosely) was supposed to be blue, but somehow it failed. You read my mind and said, "It's supposed to be blue like you. You're pink on the outside and blue inside." I felt both sad and androgynous. I pressed it inside of Slaughterhouse Five and pull it out from time to time and think about how ugly it is; it's still misshapen and gray, but I smile because it's tethered to your beauty in my mind.