July 15, 2011
I was sitting in a packed movie theatre, having just watched the first Harry Potter #7 and waiting for the second part to come out. My phone buzzed; the interesting and handsome man I’d met the previous weekend was texting me from Kansas. And a picture popped into my head.
Sitting on the floor in front of a couch, wrapped in a blanket, clutching a mug of steaming beverage, facing a fireplace and leaning back into sweater-wrapped arms and chest, and hearing “Happy Christmas, my love,” in a thick Yorkshire accent…
Nearly six months later, I’m sitting on the floor in front of a couch, listening to Vince Guaraldi and clutching a glass of wine (though the kettle’s on for tea) and leaning back into sweater-wrapped arms. There isn’t a fireplace and there hasn’t been a “Happy Christmas, my love,” but we have a tiny tree and wrapped presents and a lovey cat and I never would have thought this could be my life right now.
