Fast Foward

It had been storming for most of last week. The rain started during the third inning of my kickball game. Lightning was farther out but approaching. We typically try to push through games because sitting in your car in the parking lot for a half hour to wait out the storm is worse than getting wet and muddy.

The rain eased into a full downpour. The lightning arrived in hot flashes. New teams waiting for the next game sat in shelter. Honestly, it felt a little bad ass to be crouching next to a plate and shouting at the players during the storm. Mascara ran, my feet squished in my socks and locks of my ponytail clung to the back of my neck. We won, which helped the bad-ass feeling.

I learned Abraham's game was canceled as I squished into the local bar to meet him. I sat in my own puddle. There was distinct divide between players who had played and the players whose games never started. We looked like drowned rats.

"Aww, poor thing," he cooed when he saw me.

He offered to buy me a beer, but I shook my head. "I'm wet and I'm cold and I'd really just like to go home and take these clothes off and lay in bed and watch TV."

Abraham dug in his pocket and gave me his house keys. "I won't be long," he said. We discussed this contingency when my allergies had flared earlier that afternoon and I said I didn't feel well.

"Take your time," I said as I pecked him on the lips and left the bar.

At Abraham's place I peeled off my clothes and draped them over his bathtub. I picked a t-shirt of his out of his closet and a pair of boxers out of his dresser and put them on. Then I padded to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water and the glass of m&ms he had bought just for me. I climbed into his bed and turned on the TV. It wasn't weird being there without him.

Within a couple of hours I heard noise at the front door. "Honey, I'm home," he called as he entered his bedroom. He chuckled at his own joke.

"Kiss," I instructed. He obeyed. "Did you have a good time with your friends?"

"Meh." He reached his hand out to me. "Do you want to watch New Girl? It's recorded on the DVR in the living room."

"Okay."

I accepted his hand and he tugged me out of bed. "Come on, my girl. See what I did there?"

I laughed.

"I like you in my boxers," he admired as he swatted my butt and chased me into the living room.

This is the life I'd rather be living.