It’s raining. And it’s hot.
I threw my backpack on and hastily pedaled the mile from work to home, fat raindrops soaking the skirt of my dress and gliding into my leather shoes. When I opened the door, I wasn’t greeted with the familiar, quiet darkness of foyer, or even Eli’s lithe slip out the door into the hallway. Instead, I heard soft jazz—the lights were warm and bright—3 plates were set out on the table with napkins, silverware, and 3 perfect, sparkling Riedel stems.
Mom and Dad are here.
[Liverwurst and red onion sandwich on a baguette, named the Carlsbad, ’cause your breath is gonna be CarlsBAD for hours. via Putnam Market. I die.]
We ate sandwiches, sipped Rose, I played some air organ for my mom, and we went head-to-head for a few f**king fierce rounds of Quarto! Dudes, you actually shout QUARTO! when you win. I challenge you to find a more disruptive, entertaining board game.
I left after a little over an hour, a warm sensation spreading from my belly to my cheeks and the possibility of an afternoon nap whispering sweet temptations into the reality of my bleak, nap-less responsibility—like the suggestive open door to a brothel on a cool Colorado night in the 1800s.
But not before my mom could force me into a raincoat on my way out the door. Here’s to hoping I can stay awake for the next three hours. That was the best lunch ever.