![]() Sometimes he does this still, even now, years into our relationship, where his eyes get so focused and dark it feels like he’s looking straight into my veins, and whatever else is happening outside my body has dissolved, inconsequential as mist. “I guess this is worth only having one suitcase.” “Okay, you have a point,” I say, his fingers brushing up and down my spine. I wrap my arms tight around his waist and tilt my face up to his. ![]() ![]() “You know I like to keep my hands free.” He snakes one hand around my low back, easing my weight in against him until it feels like we’re melting together. “January,” he says, voice low as he buries his mouth against the side of my head. Of course, that would only work if my husband, an adult man of six and thirty years, were bringing an actual suitcase to the professional publishing conference, instead of a JanSport backpack.” “Well, I wouldn’t have regretted it if you’d let me stuff my shoes in with your two identical T-shirts and wad of loose socks. He gently bumps me aside to hoist it up ahead of himself. “I told you that you’d regret packing all this for a three-day trip,” Gus says as I’m dragging my broken-wheeled suitcase onto the escalator. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |