I want David Attenborough’s rich, flowing voice. I want him to focus on the finer details under the dim light of our kitchen, the place where love and dancing around the right sequence of lucky accidents happens. Indeed, there’s more than just the splatter of spaghetti simmering by the back burners. I want David to notice our flashing, throaty laughter about finding condoms in the dark as if it is a new joke. I want his hushed naturalist reverence brushing up against our thighs. Give me his whispered love language perched up in the canopy’s preening mists. Hear it fall softly now to narrate the obligatory beard washing, the wending of fingertips through bristles and soap, catching under the nail’s cleansing grind until all that is left is our bodies, which are not our bodies, of course, but hosts of pheromones and neural patterns calling out across the musk and forest floor indistinguishable from awe, our ritual of choice.
