GUEST BLOGGER: MIYA
I'm a twenty-something university undergraduate. I tend to waste most of my free time either reading stacks of books or doodling. I live in Idaho with my husband and our two children, who are admittedly somewhat smaller than most children, far furrier, and certainly much fonder of fish and poultry byproducts. When I don't have my nose stuck in a book, I also make soap, as well as dabble in knit and crochet.
In the event of a sudden crisis, I always know where my socks are.
At 11:15pm I manage to block the cats from escaping, lock the door to my apartment and begin the tedious process of defogging my car. For a Friday night, the streets are unusually clear. The streetlights are already blinking red for the night as I make my way through town and onto the highway that leads me to Pullman. I pop in a bit of Nightmare of You and crank up the stereo to keep myself awake and alert.
In ten minutes, I've crossed the state line from Idaho to Washington. Moscow may be dead quiet, but my destination appears to be a different story altogether. As I pull into the parking lot of the local Denny's, I manage to snipe the last available parking space. The lot (and restaurant) is packed, which I certainly hadn't been expecting at this hour. I scan the booths as I walk past the windows, but my date is nowhere in sight. I do a slight double-take of the parking lot, just to be sure. Did he stand me up? Better not have! But no, his truck is there, just beyond the reach of the streetlamp. He's definitely here. Crap, how long has he been waiting?
I feel a tad giddy as I tug absentmindedly on one braided pigtail, smooth out my knit sweater, and step inside. Warm air rushes out to greet me and there he is, dress-shirt untucked, looking calm, composed and gorgeous. And waiting for me, of all people! He sees me and stands, plants a very chaste kiss on my cheek, and puts an arm around my waist to pull me in close. I'm still trying to figure out how on earth this man has been waiting here to have dinner with me. He grins when he sees my face, and in embarrassment I realize that, despite my attempts to dress up for the occasion, I've forgotten to take off my Pokeball earrings. Frak...I'm such a nerd.
Regardless of the long wait and the lack of service (it is a busy night, after all), dinner is wonderful. He tells me about his week, how wonderful things have been, and how bright our future looks. Butterflies stir up briefly in my stomach when he says our future. Not to be outdone, I tell him about classes, my plans for the rest of the fall and the coming spring. I fold my arms in front of me and absentmindedly run my tongue across my teeth, self-conscious about the braces that still have a few months more to go before I can finally be rid of them. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him mirror my movements. Every time he lays a hand on the table, it gets closer and closer to mine, and I start blushing like mad. He totally likes me.
It's ridiculously hot in here. I feel like such a teenager. I'm out of water; my mouth is unusually dry, and I can't stop licking my lips. When the waitress never comes by to refill my glass, he slides his in front of me. Am I that obvious? I smile my thanks and take a sip, pushing it back to him. Dental preservation be damned, he chews on a piece of ice and grins at me.
It's getting late. Despite the sub-par service, he tips the waitress generously and wishes her a wonderful morning (by now, it is morning). He walks me to my car and opens the door for me, planting another kiss on my lips before he says he loves me and shuts the door. He walks back to his own car and waits until I've pulled out safely before leaving the lot himself. It's been a good night; I crank up the stereo and sing along. I feel so uncharacteristically happy. He loves me! I sing louder and louder until it can't even be called singing anymore; it's akin to some poor homeless despicable solo, and I giggle uncontrollably as I again cross the state line back into Idaho.
The porch light turns on as I reach the front steps and unlock the door. I set the mail on the counter, feed the cat, and slip into my pajamas. I pick up a ball of yarn and continue crocheting where I'd left off earlier that evening. Within a few minutes, I hear the front door open as he lets himself in.
"We should do this every week" he says, donning a pair of slippers and flopping onto the couch next to me. Who knew dating your husband could be so much fun?