Our relationship begins when I ask what you think the record for the tallest stack of M&Ms is and you clarify metric height or quantity and I think I know where things are headed because when I say quantity, you ask single-column stacks or are pyramidal configurations allowed and my pulse thrills. You don’t even bother with peanut vs. regular chocolate; even ten minutes in, you don’t dare insult me like that. And because you already like to please me and I already like to let you, you guess fifty, then twenty, then ten, then thread your fingers through mine in defeat so I can tell you it’s five, only five, that it’s Will Cutbill from the UK who holds the title. And on our next date, you pour a bag out (the ‘sharing size’ which we both consider misleading at best), and I see daisy chains and liquid sunsets and forever. And it takes thirteen hours, which is enough to quell the counterfactuals that this is just dessert. Cutbill has nothing on us you say when you place the sixth one on, a blue one because of course it is. I hum a response into your lips, taste the tendon that tethers your tongue into you. After, we place all the irrelevant pieces—all 336 of them—in our mouths and suck them until they glitter with spit, radioactive.