October 4, 2003
Autumnal
Imagine thirty people in a hay wagon, hoods pulled round their faces in the pitch dark, the sounds of laughter and tractor engine barreling forward into the night, and rain. A light rain, barely averted by the scarf I draped over my head. Mike's coat is a cushion beneath us, and I tuck my hand into the dry pocket between his thighs, seriously considering several naughty things (it was dark) but in the end contenting myself with a warm palm.
He leans over and tugs the scarf to cover up my face. I'll assume he was tired of looking at me.
Last night was perfect and autumnal and campy horror movie-esque. You know when you drive 45 minutes outside Cincinnati, to New Richmond, no less, down several winding one lane country roads to a deserted area overgrown with prairie grass and gravel driveways, that human sacrifice is nigh.
We had hot apple cider and barbaqued chicken instead.
Grace, the hostess and one of Mike's bosses, regaled us with stories of her gigantic and gorgeous Amish built home. We spent several hours mingling with his colleagues, not only on said hay ride but also in the parlour with vaulted ceilings and outside by the pygmy fire. We were going to roast marshmallows, but they were all gone. All, that is, but the one I managed to wallow in. My shoes are still sticky.
It felt like television. The lights were warm and yellow and and there was an almost palpable atmosphere. I grew sleepy sitting in front of the fireplace, nestled on the leather couch and talking to Supriya about indian food. She is going to give me a cooking lesson, and then I shall cook for me, and never Mike. He was spoiled enough yesterday by breakfast in bed.
It was a holiday. It always is when he is off of work. I made eggs and bacon and toast, and we curled up with our plates and ourselves and Super Mario Brothers 3 on his Super Nintendo. Our morning was thus dominated, or, I should say afternoon, as we didn't properly wake up until about one, and said breakfast was consumed nearly an hour later.
A Holiday.
When we left Grace's, Mike inadvertently took the long way back and the two of us talked about primate evolution and our relationship, though not necessarily in that order and certainly not related.
We are silly, always quoting lines from cartoons at eachother and touching, a fingertip to a hair line here, a hand slipped into a pocket or under the sweater there. I like the feeling of his hand at the small of my back, always so warm. He tells me that other people must think we are immature, or on the verge of the miserable relationships that they themselves are in, especially our mutual friends, Jeff and Michelle.
He says he told Jeff that we've always been honest with eachother, and that's what makes us different. He said our relationship is nothing like the one he had with Lisa, the Ex. I could concur, for my part and past experiences.
You know all about the other night. The almost-fight. He apologized. And not because he was wrong, or stricken, or guilty, but because he hadn't meant to upset me, and hadn't realized, until too late, that he had.
That means more to me than anything.
Today I'm sitting here in a stupor, having eaten nothing but two snack size Snickers and done nothing but play yet more Nintendo. I need to do laundry, and run home for a second comforter, and dash over to my aunt's to look at some pictures that she found in her attic of my wee brother and I. I had planned on going back to school by now, but I encourage you all to make bets about how unlikely my actually returning tonight shall be.
Can I help if I sleep better here than there?
astera at 1:37 p.m.