I stayed up late the other night watching old Saturday Night Live Best Of’s on Netflix. The next morning, I lay in bed until 9:45. When I got up, Taylor was sitting on the couch browsing Reddit, so naturally, I draped myself across his lap in an effort to annoy him.
I lay there for for fifteen minutes or so, until I inevitably got bored. Taylor’s far too used to my methods to get annoyed that quickly. I started to fuss with the blanket, and then I suddenly noticed something.
“What are you doing?” Taylor asked.
“Looking at my butt,” I said. I pinched my booty, analyzing it.
“Oh.” Taylor opened a new tab on his computer and kept reading. “Why?” he asked.
“It’s fat. It’s fatty. Look.”
Taylor glanced at me. He raised his eyebrows. It was a familiar Taylor-look, which is kind of an even mix between “please quit talking” and “you’re cute when you’re naive”.
“Girl,” he said with a wink. “You ain’t got no junk in your trunk.”
“I have lots of junk in my trunk!” I squealed. “Look at all this junk. My trunk is full of junk.”
“Nope,” said Taylor. He ignored me as I continued to poke and prod. I could gather up a handful of flab between my fingers. When I flicked it, it wiggled, kind of like jello. Pudding-butt. That’s what I had. A pudding-butt. It couldn’t be normal. I sighed.
“Actually,” Taylor said, without looking at me, “you have a pretty flat butt.”
I sat up, glaring at him.
“Your butt is flat.”
“It is NOT.”
“What…is that bad?”
“Yes! Having a flat butt is bad! My butt isn’t flat!”
“Yyyyyes it is. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I sniffed, sticking my nose in the air. Taylor didn’t look sorry. He looked more confused than anything else. “I don’t have a flat butt.”
I flipped the blanket back over myself, sulking. This wasn’t going like I thought it would. Taylor had somehow turned things around on me. I was supposed to be annoying him. He was sneaky like that, all ignoring me when I fish for compliments, and saying nice things when I don’t expect it. Stupid Taylor. I buried my head in his shoulder and sighed.
“Mrph brfft iffnt fllt.” I mumbled. Taylor kissed my hair.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “I don’t see why that’s bad. Your butt is kind of flat.”
“Mrph brfft iffnt fllt,” I said into Taylor’s shoulder.
“It is.” Taylor was making an effort to be as gentle as possible. I didn’t buy it.
“Sorry. It is.”
I sat up.
“It is not. I have a fat butt, not a flat butt, and that’s that, ok?”
Taylor turned back to the computer and continued reading headlines. I stewed on the couch, willing myself to calm down. Every once in awhile, the corners of Taylor’s mouth twitched, like he was about to crack a joke and every time thought better of it. Finally, he closed his laptop, and picked it up to take it into the office.
“Love you,” I said, as bitterly as I could muster as he kissed me on the temple. He shambled down the hall.
“Love you too,” he said, “Flat-Butt.” He shut the door with a bark of laughter.
Boys just don’t understand how drastically serious one’s butt-status really is.