Thursday, October 09, 2003

A Sweet Life

The previous residents of my first Boston apartment were a sweet hippie/yuppie couple. They had 2 small, clean dogs that they'd walk together in the evenings. They had moved out of the apartment to buy a condo down the street. He had a gentle European accent, and rode a bicycle to work to help save the environment. She had flame red hair and was never seen without a hat and sunglasses. "What a nice life they must have.", my then-roommate said wistfully about them one day. I'm certain that they did have one, the very best kind of life. At the time, I was more than a little envious.

Now, somehow, I have a similarly nice life.

I'm still not exactly sure how it happened. I suppose it's been a kind of gradual thing. But thinking about it, it certainly did.

I'm sitting here thinking about tonight. "We" have a standing date on Thursday nights. We usually end up in Davis Square, eating huge yummy cheap burritos at Anna's Taqueria. Afterwards, we'll head over to the Somerville Theater to catch an indie flick. Or grab a latte at the counter-culture hip coffeehouse/pool hall Diesel. We walk hand in hand down the cobblestoney brick streets, chatting away.

And that's just tonight.

At home, there' s the new futon to finish assembling. We bought it last weekend for the guest room/office. We still have to finish hanging art on the walls. And choose a wine rack.

On weekends, I wake up first and start coffee. Sometimes, I make oven apple pancakes. We sip and talk about the world and our place in it, the latest Palahniuk novel, our careers.

If we sleep too late, the cat comes in and stands on us insistently, little paws digging into full bladders.

Weekday evenings, I usually throw together something for dinner. Sean is always endlessly appreciative. While I stir, he makes salad, opens wine, washes dishes, sets up the coffeemaker for me. I experiment a lot. Sometimes it's good (last nights' gooey banana-caramel cake), sometimes it's not (microwaved green beans). He usually thanks me anyway.

We bicker endlessly about politics.

He makes me laugh so hard my cheeks hurt. So loud that I snort. So much that I can barely stand it.

Most of my friends who live far away are planning visits. Making plans, booking flights. They email me all the time. We talk on the phone. We miss each other.

I've pretty much convinced Fady to move out here.

We pile into the car for excursions to Maine to get lobster, and end up at Seafood Festivals in Gloucester instead. On the way there, we talk about what kind of dog we want to get, one day when we get a dog. On the way back, we stop to catch a movie.

I hate my job. But the guy I share an address with says You'll do better...It's just temporary...Go back to school if you want to...It will be Ok... Hell, he says that on the days I can't muster any more optimism.

I'm going home for Thanksgiving. My family will hug and fawn and laugh and talk so loud it will all become a giant jumble. My mom will somehow have the biggest wine glass, just like every previous year. And they've already said they'll miss Sean. Hell, I'll miss Sean!

My friend who's planning a trip out here in November just e-mailed me to ask if we could go to my favorite sushi place while she's out here. It's Shino Express, on Newbury St. My favorite cafe/bookstore, Trident, isn't too far from there.

My favorite place to people-watch: Harvard Square.
My favorite bookstore: Brookline Booksmith.
My favorite Mexican joint/place for margaritas: Border Cafe.
My favorite place to shop for clothes: Downtown Crossing - H& M, etc...
My favorite place for Asian food: Fusion Cafe
My favorite place to find my center again: Forest Hills Cemetary
My favorite bar: Charlie's Kitchen
My favorite place to take out-of-towners: The Freedom Trail
My favorite Clam Chowdah: Purple Shamrock

I have a thousand "favorites", a thousand things I love and can have, and can do. A thousand things that make up a small life. A small, sweet life. And somehow, the contentment is gradually falling over me. Wrapping around and draping like a toga, spilling onto the floor in excess.

How did it happen? When?

Who knows? I'm just happy that it did.

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