You will always be the bread and the knife

The three of them tried to fit in a loveseat. The girls sat on either side of the boy, and both of them held a hand. Both of them called the boy, "Mine" although one (the one on the left) occasionally decided to be cute and called him "Min." The tall girl rolled her eyes.

The tall girl preferred to name herself Only and Mine nodded. And then she pointed to the other girl, the one with the pearls around her neck, the one who occasionally decided to be cute, and called her, "Other!"

Other gave a sweet smile and nearly curtsied. She nodded at Only. When the tall girl looked away to scribble on a leather notebook, Other threw her arms around Mine and whispered, "I'm Forever."

Mine tried to look like he didn't feel like ordering a six-pack, nodded like something scaly was biting his neck and turned to look at Only. He poked at her shoulder.

"Hey," Mine said. He tried to free himself from the python-grasp of Other.

Only smiled, a little distractedly. And she went right back to scribbling on her notebook.

"Hey," Mine said, again, as he finally pried Other's hands from around his neck. He was heaving now and was wishing more fervently for that six-pack. He tugged at Only's shirt, which was purple and billowy -- he remember she told him she'd bought it at a rummage sale for a hundred bucks.

Only blinked. She looked closely at Mine's face and saw the apparent look of constipation on his face. She looked beyond him and saw Other stitching her pearls on a wedding veil. Only grimaced.

"Hey, ----," Only said, referring to Mine, using the secret word they had for each other. "Listen to this." And Only went back to her notebook and started to speak:

"Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine . . .
- Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and -- somehow -- the wine."

Mine beamed. Only said, "Isn't it nice?"

"Who wrote it?" asked Mine, ignoring the click-clacking of Other's feet on the floor, which sounded suspiciously like the Wedding March.

"Billy Collins."

Mine tried not to kiss Only's cheek.

Other tapped Mine on the shoulder, not missing the opportunity to give him a little squeeze. "Min? What did she say?"

"Billy Collins," Mine With An E murmured.

"Oh," Other trilled and clapped her hands. "Isn't he a country singer or something?"

Mine sighed. Only smiled and went back to her notebook and scribbled, "Idiot."

"Well?" Other pressed.

"Sorry," Mine said. "I forget."

Beside him, Only shook her head and muttered, "Christ."