Hey babe, I've got to go to Florida for a week and can come to Houston Sunday if you can see me. No worries if you have plans but I hope to see you.
Several texts back and forth and it's arranged. Soon enough - and quite unexpectedly as far as what I thought I would be doing Sunday afternoon - I find myself at the airport's international terminal waiting for the whirlwind that is him to walk through those doors and start spinning my life around.
We had 24 hours, and I can honestly say we lived all twenty-four to the full extent. We covered the Gap, Backstreet Cafe, beer, champagne, Rainbow Lodge, a believable email story, Jack Daniels, some monkey business, laundry, a whole lot of bubbles, silliness, champagne, a birthday present, easy conversation, photos, music, a lesson on some minor furniture repair that could have major consequences if left unrepaired, LBD's vet appointment for stitches removal, a bit of new camera showing off, one small tiff, more photos, more monkey business, a little chat on the benefits of a pull out bed in a sailboat galley, a bit of work, much more music, lots of water, a brief discussion on the lint brush being one of the greatest inventions ever, and Jax Grill. Somewhere in there we also managed to get a couple hours of sleep.
I've just returned from depositing him at the airport. And now I sit here as I usually do after he's come into town, feeling tired and happy but in a bit of a daze as well and sort of wondering what just happened. It's a feeling much like experiencing something that turns you upside down and leaves people shaking their heads because no one saw it coming, but it blew threw all the same and rattled every single thing down to the roots.
In a good way.
That man, he's my personal hurricane.