I painted my nails green, put in all of my diamond earrings and then pulled on my technical gear to go for a run with Ben, grabbing my favourite running shoes (my old green Sauconys from like 2008 shhhhhh I love them, they're WRECKED) and then promptly got turned back around by Lochlan, who told me my nails were nice but I should probably change, because I wouldn't be leaving the grounds for a run anytime soon.
This is what a third class relic must feel like, I told him as he turned me around, steering me toward the stairs. Touching greatness, touching freedom and veneration only to be stamped with a hindering label preventing it from ever BEING greatne-
Bridget, stop. You can be as dramatic as you like, you're not going out into the neighbourhood. Neither is Benjamin.
We wouldn't go near anyone.
I'd really rather you stay around the house. He bends down and gives me a tender, patient and understanding kiss. Sigh.
Under resin, attached to a Happy Catholic bookmark from a rack behind the door of that chintzy lace shop in the French Quarter or something-
Oh my God. You should have been an actress.
Well, it helped once upon a time, didn't it.
It did. It really did, he conceded. What about if we set up a slackline out back?
Fixed. And shoulder-height. Not this three-feet-off-the-ground shit.
That's not for you. It's for them.
Right. Okay, two then. One bounce, one fixed.
Done. After my call.
When is that?
Noon. And I can't believe you remember that shop.
I still can't believe they put the saints behind the door!
The croissants were good from the next place over though.
I still have dreams about those.
Maybe we can make some.
We never do.
But we can, and that's the best part.
I know. I have gratitude. But I have wanderlust too and there's room for both in my heart today.
I love you so much.
I hope so, Locket, or all of these dramatics are positively wasted on you.
This is what a third class relic must feel like, I told him as he turned me around, steering me toward the stairs. Touching greatness, touching freedom and veneration only to be stamped with a hindering label preventing it from ever BEING greatne-
Bridget, stop. You can be as dramatic as you like, you're not going out into the neighbourhood. Neither is Benjamin.
We wouldn't go near anyone.
I'd really rather you stay around the house. He bends down and gives me a tender, patient and understanding kiss. Sigh.
Under resin, attached to a Happy Catholic bookmark from a rack behind the door of that chintzy lace shop in the French Quarter or something-
Oh my God. You should have been an actress.
Well, it helped once upon a time, didn't it.
It did. It really did, he conceded. What about if we set up a slackline out back?
Fixed. And shoulder-height. Not this three-feet-off-the-ground shit.
That's not for you. It's for them.
Right. Okay, two then. One bounce, one fixed.
Done. After my call.
When is that?
Noon. And I can't believe you remember that shop.
I still can't believe they put the saints behind the door!
The croissants were good from the next place over though.
I still have dreams about those.
Maybe we can make some.
We never do.
But we can, and that's the best part.
I know. I have gratitude. But I have wanderlust too and there's room for both in my heart today.
I love you so much.
I hope so, Locket, or all of these dramatics are positively wasted on you.