these are the experiences...
The past two evenings have left smiles on my face and fanciful images in my head. Tuesday I saw Jennifer Nettles at Eddie's Attic. Sitting right down front, drinking wine and munching on kalamari, marveling at her, all I could think was, "these are the experiences I moved back to Atlanta for."
Last night, after spending two days fighting with the boy, he managed to apologize and sincerely plead his way almost back into my good graces. I gave in enough to wait for him to get off work. There is something entirely more intimate about hand-holding in the rain than on a normal night, just as there is something enchanting about having one hand hold the umbrella while the other is wrapped around your man as he whispers sweet nothingsm, makes you laugh back in his ear and you kiss each other with a tenderness that shows how much you care, even through the fights and misunderstandings. Even in the cold and rain, and with him facing work again in five hours, we kept coming back for one last kiss, even as I whacked him in the face with umbrella. I'm crazy about this boy, and me being me, now I find myself scared to know when the happiness will fade, when I will withdraw too soon to try to avoid getting hurt, and end up pushing him away. As I drove home last night, I kept thinking, if nothing else, these are the experiences that will make it into a novel I write one day. Or, for the cynical ones among us, a short story.
Last night, after spending two days fighting with the boy, he managed to apologize and sincerely plead his way almost back into my good graces. I gave in enough to wait for him to get off work. There is something entirely more intimate about hand-holding in the rain than on a normal night, just as there is something enchanting about having one hand hold the umbrella while the other is wrapped around your man as he whispers sweet nothingsm, makes you laugh back in his ear and you kiss each other with a tenderness that shows how much you care, even through the fights and misunderstandings. Even in the cold and rain, and with him facing work again in five hours, we kept coming back for one last kiss, even as I whacked him in the face with umbrella. I'm crazy about this boy, and me being me, now I find myself scared to know when the happiness will fade, when I will withdraw too soon to try to avoid getting hurt, and end up pushing him away. As I drove home last night, I kept thinking, if nothing else, these are the experiences that will make it into a novel I write one day. Or, for the cynical ones among us, a short story.