Sometimes I can have the most boring, mind-numbing day. Where lunch is crusty, week-old hummus. Where I sit on the couch with my husband on his only night off, feeling pressure to do something fun and romantic and memorable. But nothing exactly comes to mind so I pull myself off the couch to pour the tea, do the laundry, be productive. Another boring night wondering what we should do with our tired selves.
But we drive down the street to that little tavern where Trevor has a beer and I have a coffee. In spite of our best intentions, there is little meaningful conversation and we decide to leave because it's trivia night, questions blaring over the loudspeakers, and we really don't care to know whose preserved body is on display in Moscow.
So it's almost nine, back at the apartment, and he suggests a little walk around the neighborhood. We walk around sidewalks and hideaways I've never seen before, or noticed, anyway, and find ourselves on a wooden swing. I don't even notice that dusk has turned into night because, somehow, the thick night air and rhythm of the swing make real-life conversation come pouring out and suddenly we feel like we're dating again. We talk about this big life ahead of us; kids and trips and our Grand Purpose, whatever that may be. We look over to our apartment and realize that we live there. We're in our second home together. And we're still dreaming and giving each other googly eyes like it's only the beginning. I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, it is.
We walk up to the apartment in the jasmine-scented summer air and eat ice cream beneath the porch lights and marvel at how an ordinary day can suddenly become so real. And I'm grateful, so grateful, for the reminder on this slow and lazy day that we are still just a couple of kids walking through this crazy beautiful life together, the world at our fingertips.