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Last Saturday night, between the pages of a dictionary, Verb and Noun fell in love.
"He's not your type," Verb's mother admonished. "He's so stationary. You fly across the pages. You're so…"
"Dynamic," her father suggested.
"That's it," her mother agreed.
"But I love him. We want to form a clause and raise little participles."
"Remember your derivation, honey."
Verb moped. She'd dreamed of a house in the suburbs, her with her closet full of adverbs, he with his garage full of adjectives. Of becoming gerunds together in their old age.
Weeks passed. Verb yearned for his stability. Noun found that, without her moods and her tenses, his life was incomplete.
So, they eloped. Together, they found clarity and meaning. Not even an object was required to make their sentence complete.
And they lived infinitively, ever after.
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