Monday, September 12, 2005

Sunday Morning

He wraps his arms around me and smiles. We are outside my house, and the lamplight frightens away the shadows of the trees and the parked cars, the trellis of bouganvillas, the occassional cat. "I wish I didn't have to leave," he says. "Can't you just bring out a chair and I'll sleep outside so that I'll get to see you when I wake up?"

I grin and rest my head on his chest. He is tall enough that I have to tiptoe to wrap my arms around his neck.

"Or you can hire me. I'll cook for you, iron your clothes, give you a bath." He gives me a wry grin. "I don't want to leave."

"You have to go home," I tell him. It's already past 3 in the morning, and I can hear a distant rooster crowing.

He presses me against his body, a warm weight anchoring me to the ground. "This is my home."

We almost didn't meet. Maybe destiny does have a hand in this. Somehow, it feels like I'm part of a romantic comedy - screwball girl just settling into her life of doomed singlehood meets handsome, dashing boy from the wrong side of the tracks. But this is just the first act, just after the opening credits have rolled and we are just setting the stage for possible happiness or disaster. I suppose we'll just have to see.

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