Afternoons

The fire is nice and warm and I'm snuggled in my writing chair, my feet up, my main character about to enter his moment of epiphany. You are sneaking up from behind me, planning some antic, thinking I wouldn't notice. 

"Oh no, you don't, mister," I say in a singsong voice, and I feel you freeze. Then, a snicker. I go on typing, laughing inwardly. You walk back to the couch and start strumming your guitar. "You know, if you don't stop being naughty this rain is never gonna stop."

You give me a sheepish look and say, "sorry, love," with that lopsided grin of yours. You look like a very tall 8-year old right now, cute as a baseball cap. You start playing a Jack Johnson song and hum to it.

We had closed shop quite early on account of the nonstop rain and the date today; barely a handful of people would want to be outdoors on an extended downpour like this, anyway. We figured going home would be best and we braved the rain, sharing my small umbrella, which so conveniently snapped as we were running, and so we got soaked, laughing as we raced toward your waiting truck. You had kissed me after shutting your door, hair dripping and all, wet and gorgeous and charming the wits out of me like you always do. 

"Love?" You pause your playing.

"Yes, love?" I, frowning down at my screen, trying to decide if the girl should get ice cream or not, and if it's an essential scene, in the first place. It's almost 6 and I haven't made much progress. 

"I love you," you, "do you love me, hm?"

"You know I do. Now be a good boy and go on playing that lovely little tune--but what is that hideous smell, love?" My voice rises a little in panic.

"Oh, shit, no!" You scram to the kitchen and groan loudly. "My roast beef! Argh!"

I leave my spot and walk toward you, hugging you from behind. "It's ok love, we'll figure something out," I say, staring at the smoky carcass of a once-beautiful cake of beef, now charred, beyond saving. With a pot holder, you take it out of the oven and throw it into the bin, shaking your head, looking at me like a contrite little boy. "Dinner is ruined, love."

I plant a kiss on your cheek and tell you, "I don't care. We can get buy another one tomorrow and do it all again. For now, let's have omelettes!" 

You scratch the back of your head and smile. "Eggs, it is, then."

I take a peek through the curtain and see that twilight has long gone--evening is here, and I think to myself life can't get better than this--the storm, your burnt dinner, the warmth of you and I all around. I shut a window and hum a tune. 

Meanwhile, you are rummaging through the fridge, hellbent on starting a new feast.