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"Sometimes you're telling our story, something that happened to both of us," I argued. "And maybe I need to hijack it and reroute it to somewhere sunny and warm because I can see that you're on your way to Siberia with it, where everything is cold and confusing, and all you can see is white for miles and miles." I shuddered for dramatic effect. Rosa chuckled and said, " Ay, Barbarella ."

"Still, sometimes the passengers might want to go to Siberia," David said. "Maybe they think they're heading for a nice skiing holiday or something, and then there they'll be, stuck in Havana, with you, their skis, and their parkas." As our debate spiraled into the surreal, Rosa and Josue shared a confused stare.

"Okay," I said. "I'll try not to interrupt you so much. I know I need to work on listening and on being more respectful of others while they're speaking. But how 'bout you try to lighten up and go with the flow a little bit more?" David's eyes shot to the ceiling, as if to ponder the compromise, and I slapped him on the arm. "Come on, it won't be that hard." I put my head on his shoulder, turned my head upwards, and gave him my best mournful puppy-dog eyes. Then, quoting a line from Fiddler on the Roof , I implored, "Golda..."

David smiled and answered the question I had refrained from singing. "Yes, I love you."

My man maintains that too many people (i.e., me and the hosts of the television show MST3K ) use other people's stories as a stage for their own punch lines. He may find my behavior reprehensible, but I know he will laugh when I make my next joke.

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