I tell her that love is like osmosis. She laughs and puts on her make up.
I tell her about semi-permeable membranes, and she throws her face back in glee.
I say that when two orbs floating in a liquid come into contact, the one with the highest concentration of solvent bleeds into the other one.
She pulls her dress over her head, then scrunches up her nose. She thinks I am talking about periods.
I tell her that the orb with the more powerful solvent feeds its potent juice to the other one, pours it out, until an equilibrium is reached.
She has crushed my prescribed ritalin and is snorting a line off the wooden table of her own creation. She is walking towards the door. I am not finished.
I tell her that when the orbs break contact, they just float away, and whatever amount of solvent is left in each one stays like that way.. Sometimes though, one of the orbs ends up relinquishing most of its solvent, and when it breaks away, there's nothing left. It's just empty.
She opens the door and checks herself once again in the mirror. She smiles and tells me I know nothing about chemistry.
'It's not chemistry,' I insist as she walks outside to meet her chauffer, her chapperone, her platonic chum.
'It's poetry!' I call as she skips up the street towards him.