It was always a dream of ours. Time. Time to do what we felt we wanted to do. The time we dreamed of sharing, versus what we really had to work with, were two different animals. The time we had to spend together was really window dressing more than anything else. Stolen time. Weekday nights, if we were lucky, were all about moments that you had to come over and have a bit of supper, play some parlor games and then race back home. Other moments we shared were built into errands, post work stuff, time when you could fit in abstracts and tall tales and fibs. Errands that ran too long. Trips that were made out to be work related. All that.
All that I know is that it made going out for a dinner and a movie out in town darn near impossible.
But once, and only once, we made it happen.
Call it the romantic in me but for the sake of the story it had to happen. Even if a time "on the town" was a bit closer to home that we expected.
Ok, it wasn't out in town, catching the latest release, eating at the niftiest new joint in town. It wasn't studied, looking over the listings in the newspaper, looking to see what the latest releases were and making a date. It wasn't a matinee in town or a nice ferry trip over the water to catch some significant big screen release or some epic foreign film in Seattle. No, it all came down to a crock pot, an old favorite, and a very tight and select moment of time.
Not to belabor the story, but M, do you remember The Ghost and Mrs Muir? Not the tv show, of course, but that film we watched? Of course you do, I am sure, because when I tossed that film at you last spring in the Starbucks parking lot you said to me that you always wanted to see that film again. But that night we finally had a chance to do what we dreamed of. I had stew cooking all day long. Came home and whipped up a pot of mashed. Hit the heater, toasted up the house a bit. You came in from your shift, we dished up supper and popped in the print.
Wow.
What was wow, you might ask? It wasn't Michelan five star. It wasn't a night on the town. Hell, the broccoli was even a bit overcooked. No, it was what we had accomplished. Dinner, side by side on the loveseat, A movie, from start to finish. A shared blanket. An old fashioned romance, a quality old Hollywood movie that had our story written all over it. Tragic, sweet, something to savor. A rascal of a sailor man who died too soon, who fell in love with a real live woman after the fact, after life was all done and gone, but who had sense enough to let her go in death.
We all come back together later on, don't we, if the love is true? Least ways, that's what happens when love is true, or when it's displayed on the screen in old Hollywood backlot romances.
But we made it. Got through the film with just the right amount of time to send you home under the radar. Once and only once and never again.
Never mind. One time is sometimes is all you need.
That is truly our story.
Just once.
And that "once", M. Oh. My. Dear.
Your WHMB
All that I know is that it made going out for a dinner and a movie out in town darn near impossible.
But once, and only once, we made it happen.
Call it the romantic in me but for the sake of the story it had to happen. Even if a time "on the town" was a bit closer to home that we expected.
Ok, it wasn't out in town, catching the latest release, eating at the niftiest new joint in town. It wasn't studied, looking over the listings in the newspaper, looking to see what the latest releases were and making a date. It wasn't a matinee in town or a nice ferry trip over the water to catch some significant big screen release or some epic foreign film in Seattle. No, it all came down to a crock pot, an old favorite, and a very tight and select moment of time.
Not to belabor the story, but M, do you remember The Ghost and Mrs Muir? Not the tv show, of course, but that film we watched? Of course you do, I am sure, because when I tossed that film at you last spring in the Starbucks parking lot you said to me that you always wanted to see that film again. But that night we finally had a chance to do what we dreamed of. I had stew cooking all day long. Came home and whipped up a pot of mashed. Hit the heater, toasted up the house a bit. You came in from your shift, we dished up supper and popped in the print.
Wow.
What was wow, you might ask? It wasn't Michelan five star. It wasn't a night on the town. Hell, the broccoli was even a bit overcooked. No, it was what we had accomplished. Dinner, side by side on the loveseat, A movie, from start to finish. A shared blanket. An old fashioned romance, a quality old Hollywood movie that had our story written all over it. Tragic, sweet, something to savor. A rascal of a sailor man who died too soon, who fell in love with a real live woman after the fact, after life was all done and gone, but who had sense enough to let her go in death.
We all come back together later on, don't we, if the love is true? Least ways, that's what happens when love is true, or when it's displayed on the screen in old Hollywood backlot romances.
But we made it. Got through the film with just the right amount of time to send you home under the radar. Once and only once and never again.
Never mind. One time is sometimes is all you need.
That is truly our story.
Just once.
And that "once", M. Oh. My. Dear.
Your WHMB
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