Clover.

The sun is making you squint, and is casting a shadow underneath your jaw as I look up from where my head lays on your thigh. You're absentmindedly playing with a few strands of my hair as you read me an article about clover. 

I think about all of the clover I used to use to catch the bumble bees in my bug house at my Great Grandma's house, right there in her front lawn. They'd be collecting pollen on the flower, and I'd sneak up, open the bug hut door, slip it over them, and snap the door closed; another flower and bee trapped successfully, much to my enjoyment. After a little bit, I'd let them all fly back out together, a mass exodus from a hard work day in the "conference room" I'd unexpectedly wrangled them into. 

"Are you even listening to me?" you interrupt my reminiscent moment with a toying remark & little tug on my hair. "Do you even know what I'm talking about right now?"

"Clover," I reply, but you shake your head and laugh.

"You're thinking about those dang bees again, aren't you?"

"Kinda hard not to when they're so cute."

"You're lucky you're cute," you joke. "Anyways, I'd moved onto-"

"The same ol' thing? How much you hate grass, and how you'll never have a grass lawn so long as we both shall live?" I sit up a bit and turn to face you, so you can see how far back I roll my eyes, and then settle back on my elbows.

"You're damn right I won't, we're gonna have nothin' but clover. No mowing; better for the environment, and as many of those fat bottomed bees as you can handle." You scoop your arm behind the small of my back and bring me closer to you. "Now let's get you back home so that I can get as much of this fat bottom as I can handle."

I roll my eyes again as you kiss me, but I silently promise never to forget that you just used the word "we." Maybe we're both in more trouble than we know.