That's what he said.
No longer chasing guitar players and firemen, now rarely ducking into little bars and dives in search of live local music. No more online meet-ups and greet-ups. I miss that girl and the attention she got. But maybe I've simply stopped running about because she found good stuff at home, a cozy home that always smells good. And to quote Clueless, “My party clothes are so binding.”
Spent Saturday night in leggings and a tank (no underwires) and a snuggly much-too-big zip hoodie on his couch munching chicken wings and nachos. Being All Hallows Eve eve, we watched Zombie Strippers, a silly and groan-worthy, not-porn romp starring Jenna Jameson. I nearly lost it when she loaded up her zombie hooch with pool balls to shoot at a rival zombie stripper. You read that right. Later a documentary we’d queued on Netflix, one of my choices. Then we all curled up together, him and me and the dog and the cat and slept. Slept until almost 10 a.m. Then he took me for Sunday brunch.
A friend recently wrote about “the middle,” the part of the relationship past the flutter, the courting, the crazy sex, the lingering dinners. The middle moves the two of you into edging towards arguments, or coming home to a dog who's been sick in his kennel. Or job or family or health worries. Or being brave enough to ask, "Are you happy with me?"
“Middles are life,” she said.
And her words made me think about the hand always looking for mine to hold and not seeing the extra 15 on me and the latte every morning I wake up there and falling asleep during almost every movie watched.
Sometimes it’s nice to just have someone to eat chicken wings with.