Professor Donald Eltner was a man of rules, especially when it came to words. To him, language wasn’t just a tool; it was an art form, a code to be cracked, a bridge to understanding. As an English professor at an esteemed liberal arts college, he spent his days extolling the virtues of precision, crafting lectures that wove syntax into symphonies, and guiding students away from the pitfalls of sloppy grammar.

And yet, he was utterly, hopelessly in love with Maggie.

Maggie was chaos incarnate. Her dark curls had a life of their own, her laughter could ignite a room, and her way of speaking… well, it was nothing short of an adventure. She was a chronic, unapologetic butcher of language. Words bent, twisted, and transformed in her mouth, often into something unrecognizable.

It wasn’t the usual fare of “expresso” or “irregardless.” No, Maggie’s mistakes were uniquely her own. She didn’t stumble into clichés; she reconstructed them, as though language were a puzzle missing half its pieces but still deserving of play.

Donald had met her in a bookstore. She’d been chatting with a stranger at an author reading, declaring her love for “exhumerant” warrior poets and how she couldn’t wait to “wed her appetite” at the cafe afterward. He’d flinched, ready to walk away, but something about her joy—her unselfconscious delight in the world—rooted him in place.

Later, when she handed him a latte and asked, “Are you really an actual profester of English?” he knew he should run. But instead, he laughed.

“I suppose you could say that,” he said, watching as she grinned like she’d won a prize.

From that moment on, Maggie and her whirlwind of mispronunciations became part of his life.

She turned idioms into puzzles for him to solve. “It’s a doggy dog world,” she’d say, or “I guess we’re on tenderhooks now!” Each time, Donald would gently correct her, but her words stuck to him, reframing the mundane into something strange and wonderful.

One evening, during a particularly animated conversation, Maggie leaned back and said, “You know, I’m glad I bited my time on this decision.”

Donald blinked. “You mean ‘bided your time,’ right?”

“Isn’t that what I said?” she replied, her face the picture of innocence.

He sighed and smiled. “Never change, Maggie.”

But Donald’s love for her was tested the night she met his colleagues.

Maggie had been nervous. She’d even spent the afternoon rehearsing “intelligent” phrases she thought would impress them. At first, it went well—her charm softened even the stiffest of academics. Then came dessert.

“I just don’t think his themes are worth disgusting,” she announced.

Donald froze. “You mean discussing, don’t you?” he murmured.

“No,” she said brightly. “Disgusting. They’re terrible!”

The table erupted into polite chuckles. Maggie, oblivious, pressed on. “And honestly, I could care less about his characters. They’re all so predictable!”

Donald’s face burned. “It’s ‘couldn’t care less,’ Maggie,” he whispered, his voice taut.

“What? That doesn’t even make sense!” she said, brushing him off. “Anyway, the problem is all those statues of limitations in his plots. They’re so rigid.”

This time, the laughter wasn’t stifled. Maggie smiled, thinking she’d made a point. Donald wanted to disappear.

Later, as they walked home under the streetlights, Donald’s silence was palpable. Maggie finally broke it.

“You’re quiet,” she said. “Was I making mute points at dinner or something?”

He stopped and turned to her, a strange mixture of affection and exasperation bubbling inside him. “It’s ‘moot points,’ Maggie,” he said softly.

Her eyes widened. “Oh. Did I mess that up too?”

Donald tried to hold it in, but the absurdity of the moment overwhelmed him. He laughed—harder than he had in years. Maggie stared at him, confused, until she started laughing too.

“What’s so funny?” she managed between breaths.

“You are,” he said, wiping his eyes. “You constantly mispronounce words, and it should drive me mad. I mean, I’m an English professor. But with you, it’s…” He paused, searching for the right word. “It’s beautiful, in its own way.”

Maggie tilted her head, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Well, I guess you’ve got your work cut out for you then, Profester Hart.”

And just like that, Donald realized something profound: language was his life’s work, but Maggie was his life’s joy. Her imperfections weren’t flaws to be corrected but treasures to be cherished.

Beneath the moonlit sky, he reached for her hand. “Let’s go home,” he said, feeling lighter than he had in years.

After all, love—messy, unpredictable, and utterly human—was far more important than perfect grammar. And with Maggie by his side, he was finally learning to embrace the poetry of imperfection.