“Learn?” He makes a stab at pretending to take offense, at the same time that he’s pulling her closer. “I’m not a rich man, or a spendthrift. I only love you.”

And then he leans in to kiss her again, just as lovesick as she seems to be. Sometimes it pains him to look at her, with her big purple eyes and her bright short hair against the sky. When he is not kissing her, he misses kissing her. It has been long years since he wished that anyone would write a song about him — now he tends to wish that they wouldn’t. But it might be that she deserves a song.