Jacob's making me a Reuben sandwich for lunch. I love Reubens. And ice-cream floats because I was making jokes about living in a country made of ice cream last night. Bonus points if you know what movie that's from.
Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my, roses in my hands?
Would you get them if I did?
No, you won't
Cause you're gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.
When you're dreaming with a broken heart
The waking up is the hardest part.
Today's musical accompaniment will be provided by John Mayer, who sang this to us from the stereo as we slow-danced our way to bedtime last night, and I noticed how black Jacob's knuckles are on his right hand as he held my fingertips to his lips and kissed them and he smiled at me. I was thrilled to notice that my heart flip-flops when he looks at me. Still. Forever.
This morning was a deviation from the norm by far. Claus had an emergency and so my session was cancelled for the week, he is secure in the knowledge that I have my own handy live-in counselor and so I thought I'd grab my run, since I usually have to skip Wednesdays now.
Jacob invited himself to go running with me, which is a rare event. He runs twice as far and twice as fast as I usually do. Oh, and he likes to run and talk. Am I the only person in the world who can't carry on a conversation while running? Please, I prefer to put all my capacity into breathing. The ragged raspy panting kind, which Jacob so lovingly pointed out that I sound like I do when we're making love, only without his favorite little noises and hums and lyrical quirks I express erstwhile.
Oh, now you like those? What happened to the mogwai references? I love it when the singer changes his tune.
Right. There's the difference between pain and pleasure, buddy. And I don't get any pleasure from running until I hit the rush somewhere between the last mailbox and the sidewalk that leads to our front steps.
Which are wet today. Melting ice.
Clearing roads. I spy pavement.
Clocks springing (wintering) forward in four days. Which means more sunlight. A weekend with almost double-digit temperatures forecast for five days straight ahead, a sun so bright I had black spots in front of my eyes for an hour when I came inside and so I couldn't write.
A curse from me, who wants to make this the final season in a year of discontent. We're very quickly approaching a year since Jacob picked up my snowglobe and shook it so incredibly violently that when the glitter settled everything was rearranged and looked brand new.
A year. Almost. Almost there guys.
Four seasons of bitterness piled on top of difficulties on top of baggage and yet, yes we're still going. Right down the road in front of you in our winter running gear yelling insults to each other like the most loving disfunctional human beans in the world. It's glorious, it is.
And it's going to be a better spring.
Oh yum. My sandwich is ready. See you tomorrow.
