Minu, you were warned:
Luna spat out the mouthful, “rebarbative!” she said. “But, rhubarb’s your favorite,” Louis answered. Luna rolled her eyes. He was not the sharpest blade in the shop. What had she seen in him? It was the name. “Louis Lapidaire.” It was plangent on the tongue, evocative. He must have been French, somewhere. But Luna knew what it meant, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she made an association between Louis and jewelry. She had a solipsistic, half-formed expectation of lapidary gifts. Instead, he baked rhubarb for her and forgot the sugar. She’d gotten into this because of her weakness for difficult words (and difficult flavors). She was not consequential, though, and not inclined to break it off for his sake. The name. He hadn’t picked up on “rebarbative”. Instead of explaining, she feigned feeling full. She pointed at her round belly and said, “gibbous.”
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