New Story: "Love is not a verb"

She pinches the green maple leaf between two index fingers and two thumbs and splits it diagonal – the stringy veins give and tear. White vein glue chases the seams and rises out, bubbling slowly from the guts of the leaf. Wet, she expects the glue to be thick like the one that held her popsicle-stick bridge together for grade three geometry. Drawing the leaf-glue on her finger tips from the edge of the leaf, she traces her lips with the remnants. It smells like tree bark and fresh mom’s Sunday spinach salad. “Kiss me – we’ll be stuck forever,” she says. David ignores her. He is too busy misting a fly’s wings down to the sidewalk with his mom’s Finesse extra hold hairspray. Like carefully constructing a house of cards, David intently sprays, half-squinting because of the fumes. The only time he looks at her is to yank a bobby pin from her hair. He slides the bobby pin between his teeth, bites down and shoots the bobby pin out of his mouth almost elbowing her in the chest. Taking the sharp end of the pin, he plunges it between the fly’s head and body (I don’t think flies have a neck) and slices through helpless creature. “David, you there?” she says. His pink tongue sticks out a little – triangular and balled up in excitement at the corner of his mouth. Eyes shinning. Slice. Squirm. The fly’s head pops and its six legs scramble.
"David I’m talking to you! Don’t you want to kiss me?” she says
“Naw, everyone knows your lips are Johnny’s,” David says
“But I want us to be kissing now” she says
David prys a leg off of the fly body – now static and throws it at her face telling her to “geet.”