seriously, best. christmas. ever.
December 27, 2004, 12:30 pm

Setting: Interior townhouse. Day. A couple sits on a couch, staring at the television.

"I am going to make us lunch."

"Okay, that sounds great."

"You're not coming with me?"

"Do you need me to help you?"

"No, but you know, I like talking to you."

"Do you need me to talk to you?"

"No..."

"The Ravens are on."

"Yes, but..."

"The Ravens are on."

"Yeah--"

"Ravens. Go make me lunch."

"How messed up is this picture?"

"What?"

"You're sitting here watching football, and I'm going to the kitchen to make you food. I'm a football widow, and I'm a guy."

"Hey, gender role reversal is a gorgeous thing. Don't forget the pickles!"

"I'll pickle you..."

Cut to outside door where we hear laughter then moans accompanied by the CBS Football score.

Cut to interior with the couple on the couch, two empty plates are in front of them on the table.

"What's wrong?"

"The Ravens are losing. They're going to lose. I don't know if I can watch this Steelers love fest."

"Don't be upset."

"Impossible. It wasn't even Kyle's fau--ooh--STOP! Nothing can make me feel bett--ooh, um, nevermind. Do that again."

End scene.

I have spent the better part of this past week sleeping with the past. Typically, in times before, this scenario would leave me bewildered, hopeful, befuddled, and then terribly distraught; however, I'm happy to report I'm none of these things. The past makes me breakfast, cuddles me and spoons me, and whispers lovely things that I want to hear. It celebrates my chunky thighs, loves tickling me, and holds my hand in public places. It also has broad shoulders, gorgeous eyes, and builds things. In short, I am happy, and so is the past, and together we have an understanding that I am not in this for the long haul because I've been here before, and I refuse to be hurt again. I won't be.