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You knew it was a bad idea, but you did it anyway. Bad ideas the lot of 'em, honestly. You found the article in a battered magazine in a coroner's waiting room: "Twenty-One Ways to Spice Things Up with Him." There's no subtle way to pocket it, so you get your phone out and snap a shot of the list.
It's not like things aren't fucking spicy between the two of you right now, but who knows how long they'll stay that way? Sooner or later, he's gonna get used to being human, used to being with you, and then he'll realize he's got literally billions of better options than your beat-up ass. If each of these 21 dumb ideas buys you another day or two with him, that's an extra month of happiness you'll get before you lose him for good.
Because he does make you happy. Shit, he makes you happier than you've ever been. You didn't know you could feel like this, so lit-up inside. Like you're more than your scars, more than the damage you've taken and the damage you've dished out. And you try, every second you're with him, to make him feel even a fraction of that in return. Hence the sneaky peeks into ancient copies of Cosmo. Hence the night out to put into action item number one from the list: "Find a bar with a mechanical bull, and show him how well you can ride!"
It's been years, but you used to do this a lot. A bar offering cash prizes for bull rides was always a nice find, a break from hustling suckers for food money, and you haven't lost the knack. So it's not much of a surprise when they're announcing, "Ladies! And! Gentlemen! Your winner! For this evening! Is! DEEEAAAN!!!" What is a surprise is how dark his eyes are when you come back to the table, the way he looks like he wants to lick the sweat right off of you. The two of you barely make it to Baby's backseat before he's reminding you how well he can ride the bull.
After, he holds you close and whispers the sweetest things. He tells you, as he always does, how much he loves you. He promises you once again that he'll love you forever, and your heart aches with wanting to believe those words as much as he does. But what does he know? He's new at this, at everything, and all your shabby tricks seem like miracles to him. He'll figure it out eventually, and leave you in the dust.
As you fall asleep together in the back of your car in some honky-tonk's parking lot, you let yourself imagine it, though, just for a little while: What it would be like to have forever with him. Then you push the picture away, push the ache back down. Tonight was good. The bad idea worked out okay. You still have 20 more to go.