Probabilities
Ming-Ming lay down next to him in the shade, and said that love was necessary.
He slowly looked over, and her face was unfamiliar-solemn. So he didn't know what to do, and looked away with a noncommittal, "Uh." Hoping she wouldn't continue. But she continued, sighing that love was definitely necessary—singing songs about how much it hurt everybody, how much it healed them afterwards… seeing him and how he'd changed… had taught her that love was 100 percent necessary.
There was no breathing without it.
She bent and unbent her legs like on a swing, but on her stomach; he let the movement occupy his maybe-mortified attention. But she was telling him, now, that all this time she'd been singing about it and groveling for it and posing for the cameras, searching for it, but she supposed she hadn't once 100 percent felt it. 98, 99 percent. Then she looked at him. And he didn't know what to do.
But Brooklyn supposed he could keep her breathing. So he beamed, "Well..." and then, "I 100 percent love you." And he looked straight ahead, under her stare, so she wouldn't be able to easily judge the accuracy of those percentages.