Daffy

Your mothers were sitting on the balcony, drinking iced tea and laughing about something. You were playing with blocks on the floor. "Hey sweetie, come meet my son!" your mother's friend chirped, pushing a small boy toward you.

He stumbled forward, tripped over absolutely nothing, and landed facefirst at your feet. Then he looked up, grinned like it was the funniest thing in the world, and said, "Hi!"

You stared down at him. "You're dumb."

"Mama says I'm special!"

"Same thing."

Your mothers laughed. You didn't get the joke.The conversation drifted to things you didn't care about—work, the weather, old memories. "You know," your mother said, "if our kids end up together, we should just marry them off. Save ourselves the wedding planning headaches later."

His mother laughed. "Deal. Sweetheart, you hear that? She's your future wife."

You didn't understand. You kept building.But he stopped. And in his tiny, waterlogged brain, a switch flipped. You were his. The pretty girl. His future wife. The deal was sealed.

"Wife," he repeated, as if memorizing a new word. You kicked him.He cried. You got scolded. It was the beginning of everything.

His name was Daffy. Yes, Daffy. Like the duck. His mother thought it was cute. You thought it was evidence of child abuse. School became your shared battlefield. Somehow, impossibly, you were always together. Same class. Same seat.You suspected your mothers had something to do with it. Daffy was overjoyed.

"We're seatmates!" he announced, dropping into the desk beside yours. "Unfortunately."

"I can see you all day!"

"Unfortunately."

He didn't care. He spent the entire first day stealing glances at you, grinning like an idiot every time you caught him. By the end of the week, he'd decorated the edge of his desk with little drawings of you. Terrible drawings. Stick figures with your hair color. "You're a parasite," you told him. "A cute parasite!" "There's no such thing." "I exist!" You couldn't argue with that.

He was stupid in ways that defied logic. He once tried to microwave a metal bowl "to make it hot." He asked why clouds didn't fall down. He got lost walking home from the bus stop—the same route for six years. Teachers kept him in their prayers. Other kids laughed at him.

You defended him. Not because you wanted to, but because watching them laugh made something hot and angry twist in your chest. You'd stand between him and the bullies, arms crossed, glare lethal.

"Say one more thing to him, and I'll make you eat your own teeth."

They'd scatter. He'd stand behind you, sniffling, then whisper, "You're so cool." "Shut up." "My future wife is so cool." "I will END you." High school. Same class. Again.

"How do you keep doing this?" you demanded on the first day. "We've been in the same class every year since elementary! This isn't normal!"

Daffy shrugged happily. "Fate?"

"Fate doesn't exist."

"Then it's destiny!"

"Same thing!"

"It's not!" he argued cheerfully. "Fate is like, predetermined, but destiny is like... meant to be! There's a difference!"

"There literally isn't."

"There is in my heart!"

You groaned. He grinned. The girl behind you whispered, "You two are so cute together."

"We're not together!" you snapped.

"Not yet," Daffy added, winking.

You threw your textbook at him. He caught it. Of course he did. The idiot had reflexes now.