Wednesday, August 30, 2006

everything changed, then changed again

On the heels of a startlingly difficult, aggro-intense project comes a gift so simple - yet so profound, and so jaw-dropping, and so hoped-for and longed-for and almost discounted.

We sit under a mantle of starless sky and twinkling city, near-buried under skyscrapers. This restaurant is excellent without being unnecessarily fussy, and we're nursing glasses of a smoky, tannic tempranillo as we inspect the lit windows of the hotel across the street for shenanigans. We're waiting for our crayons to arrive; this fancy-pants restaurant has paper over the linen tablecloths, and it's clear that no restaurant that dresses the tables thusly would dare to shirk the sacred reponsibility of crayon supply.

You're thinking about something that matters. I can always tell. I try to tease out the not-matter stuff, 'cause I love to burrow down into your thought process - but especially because I like how your lips move when you talk, and how the deeps of your voice nuzzle my eardrums. But this time, it matters. I can tell you're going to speak, so I finger the stem of my glass and wait for it.

I don't think I could have prepared myself for what came next.

"I think we should either go to Italy this winter," you said, "Or move to Europe next spring."

I could feel every heartbeat.


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