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“I needed to say something. Something romantic! Something to sweep her off her feet.
"You’re like a potato!" I shouted after her. "In a minefield."
She froze in place. Then she spun on me, her face lit by a half-grown fruit. “A potato,� she said flatly. “That’s the best you can do? Seriously?�
“It makes sense,� I said. “Listen. You’re strolling through a minefield, worried about getting blown up. And then you step on something, and you think, ‘I’m dead.� But it’s just a potato. And you’re so relieved to find something so wonderful when you expected something so awful. That’s what you are. To me.�
“A potato.�
“Sure. French fries? Mashed potatoes? Who doesn’t like potatoes?�
“Plenty of people. Why can’t I be something sweet, like a cake?�
“Because cake wouldn’t grow in a minefield. Obviously.�
She stared down the hallway at me for a few moments, then sat on an overgrown set of roots.
Sparks. She seemed to be crying. Idiot! I thought at myself, scrambling through the foliage. Romantic. You were supposed to be romantic, you slontze! Potatoes weren’t romantic. I should have gone with a carrot.”
― Brandon Sanderson, Firefight