It was okay at first. It felt great being near you after so long apart. Riding the reunion high was easy until it suddenly wasn’t. All at once, it seems, the less-than-glorious details of our situation came crashing back into my consciousness.
I read your blog. You’ve been blogging for a long time. It became apparent to me that you are a computer genius and have always been ahead of the technology curve. You are also an impressive, insightful writer. I drank your words like they held magical powers, like a celebrity drinks a five-dollar bottle of Kabbalah water.
He’s not that “Young Brad Pitt” kind of attractive, where they’re so good looking it’s like staring into the surface of the sun. No, Ryan has the sheepish grin and long features of someone you could actually see yourself kind of dating.
“It’s 1:30 a.m.” This announcement is met with groans and shivers. “We have to get home,” the littlest one says to the others. My adult alarm starts to go off. Children… must… get… home… me. Adult. You. Children. Must help children.
The Nail in the Coffin is the shot that you clearly did not need. It ends your night and throws all hopes of frisky behavior with the opposite sex out the window. The Nail in the Coffin is the Cab Shot: the shot that makes you take a cab home, where under different circumstances you would be lucid enough to take the damn train.