I'll Make Coffee & You'll Read The Paper
I got out of the shower yesterday and smeared some lotion that I barely ever use over my shoulders and arms. It's that thick body cream that comes in a tub instead of a bottle, and it smells like cake. I bought it at the Bath & Body Works in Tyson's Corner one weekend with Melissa and Whitney when Rob was living there and I was visiting.
It smells like winter to me, that lotion, so once I put it on I crossed my arms over my face and breathed in deeply, remembering the really tall but wobbly air mattress we used to sleep on and the kitchen with barely anything in it that he shared with two other guys. Chilly afternoons with friends and dinners out in DC, loud bars at Halloween and high heels at holiday parties, sad Sunday afternoons filled with naps and extra kisses and four hour drives into the night.
They were days full of friends and full of fun, but they were days that sometimes felt as though they'd never end; like we'd always be separated by our jobs and the cities we lived in.
But now we have this place together, and though it sometimes also feels transitional, there are flowers in vases and all of my books are on a shelf and we share a car and say things like, "What do you want to do for dinner?" because after a day of work, we are together. And I wake up on Sunday mornings with nowhere to go and I put water on the stove for coffee and think, this is our life. And it is so good.