Feeling: philosophical
Listening to: Sarah McLachlan - Fallen
Reading/Watching: Cube Route - Piers Anthony

Tonight, I played hooky.

It was pre-planned hooky, and I felt not a smidge of remorse--especially since my throat actually was hurting today, and when mon coeur looked down into it, he could see white specks all over my tonsils (after we had the brief discussion over how the hanging-down thingy in the middle was the uvula and the two big puffy things on the sides were the tonsils, hence the whole plural bit) so I guess my lie is partially true.

I still went to my sub job, and made myself hoarse trying to control a passel of kindergarten kids and first graders while playing games that involve singing, leapfrog, and various forms of who's-in-the-middle-of-the-circle. Then afterward, I called my voice student and postponed, and called jobchurch and told them I was ill (my voice was not in fine form after subbing, anyway, so eh bien).

We had dinner. I even had a glass of alcohol. We went to see The Departed, which is fascinating in a very sick, twisty, high-body-count way.

On our way out of the theater, we saw that it was pouring outside, and my husband sent me a significant look and said "It's raining. Should we run for it, or not even try?"

I shrugged. "It's not like we can't just get wet, go home, make hot cocoa, take off our clothes, get in the shower, get more wet..."

We strolled through the rain, pelted with each step, and he called me the woman of his dreams.

I tried to think of whether he was the man of my dreams. For one thing, the man of my teenage dreams was tall, poetic, a little tortured and insecure, gangly or wiry, very musical, older than me, and much more... ahem... experienced than I was. And secondly, I never seem to remember my good dreams; only my nightmares.

I'm sure my good dreams are fine: fluffy clouds, flying, singing in opera houses, etc. I just never remember them. What I remember are the nightmares. The visions of that horrible midnight phone call while he was overseas somewhere, a burned, twisted car, or a sterile hospital room all had the same denominator: I crumpled to the floor and lost my sanity at the thought of living without him.

So I suppose it's an ever higher compliment to pay when I say he's the boy of my nightmares. Because all my worst subconscious fears seem to center around losing him.

Isn't it ridiculous? No matter how many years I notch into my belt, no matter how many happy memories, some corner of my mind is still convinced that I won't get to keep it. But maybe that's why I value this happiness all the more: we love nothing so much as what is temporary, because that way we don't take it for granted.

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