I'll have a full account of the birthday bash once I have the pictures developed and scanned. For now, let it suffice to say that the party was fabulous! As one of my friends put it, "I'll say this for your party - there's going to be a *lot* of sex happening after it."
Personally, though, I've been in one of my pensive autumn moods ever since.
Anticipation is a funny thing.
Mary and I were having a conversation, and we ducked into a room at the far end of the house for a bit of peace and quiet.
I don't recall how we came around to it, but eventually I said something that, with a certain elegant obliqueness, nevertheless clearly intimated my romantic interest.
To which she replied, "You don't really want *that*, do you?"
Smiling, but still saying it.
Then, she invoked the age difference. *That* caught me completely unawares.
I'll concede that seven years is a huge difference when it's the space between 17 and 24, but these things matter less as one gets older. 22 and 29 is not May-December, it's the first week of June and the last week of June. It's the last thing I was expecting to matter.
Then, without pausing long enough for me to say anything, she says, "I'll kiss you anyway, though, because it's your birthday."
And the way she said it, it sounded more like an invitation than an offer of consolation.
We started leaning toward each other...
And that's when the comic relief came in. The door opened and a whole peapod set of heads popped up in the doorframe.
You see, none of the doors in this house lock except the bathroom doors. Hence, sex *after* the party, not *at* it.
L: "We saw a door closed and thought somebody might be making out...we were going to barge in on them. Sorry." Then the peapod left, clearly disappointed not to have interrupted anything juicy.
...and it was if they were never there. I smiled and shrugged. She smiled. We kissed, and a million flashbulbs went off in my head, trying to capture every little microsecond of the moment in memory.
And then, after a moment, she said We should get back to your party, and so we did.
The mingled promise and disappointment of that moment has been preoccupying me ever since.
The Monday rain falls on brown and yellow leaves. They cling to the wet pavement and will not budge.
Personally, though, I've been in one of my pensive autumn moods ever since.
Anticipation is a funny thing.
Mary and I were having a conversation, and we ducked into a room at the far end of the house for a bit of peace and quiet.
I don't recall how we came around to it, but eventually I said something that, with a certain elegant obliqueness, nevertheless clearly intimated my romantic interest.
To which she replied, "You don't really want *that*, do you?"
Smiling, but still saying it.
Then, she invoked the age difference. *That* caught me completely unawares.
I'll concede that seven years is a huge difference when it's the space between 17 and 24, but these things matter less as one gets older. 22 and 29 is not May-December, it's the first week of June and the last week of June. It's the last thing I was expecting to matter.
Then, without pausing long enough for me to say anything, she says, "I'll kiss you anyway, though, because it's your birthday."
And the way she said it, it sounded more like an invitation than an offer of consolation.
We started leaning toward each other...
And that's when the comic relief came in. The door opened and a whole peapod set of heads popped up in the doorframe.
You see, none of the doors in this house lock except the bathroom doors. Hence, sex *after* the party, not *at* it.
L: "We saw a door closed and thought somebody might be making out...we were going to barge in on them. Sorry." Then the peapod left, clearly disappointed not to have interrupted anything juicy.
...and it was if they were never there. I smiled and shrugged. She smiled. We kissed, and a million flashbulbs went off in my head, trying to capture every little microsecond of the moment in memory.
And then, after a moment, she said We should get back to your party, and so we did.
The mingled promise and disappointment of that moment has been preoccupying me ever since.
The Monday rain falls on brown and yellow leaves. They cling to the wet pavement and will not budge.
My mom was 17 when they married.
They're still together. 25 years on the 1st.