I see her approach in my side mirror, head ducked even though she's carrying an umbrella. She always is a little more practical than I am. She climbs in the passenger seat, arm extended outside so she can close the umbrella, and she turns to kiss me.
"Damn," she says, closing the door and throwing the umbrella in the backseat. I notice the bottom of her khakis are soaked. "I wish customers understood that we close at 9, not 9:30."
"I'm sorry, babe." Sometimes I feel like half our relationship is spent apologizing to each other for shit we didn't have a hand in. But it makes her smile, which is all I'm hoping for. It's all I ever hope for. I pull out of the parking lot and head home, the streetlights flickering above us. It seems like there's no time of day in this town you can go out and not encounter traffic, and tonight the drivers are evenly split between those driving too cautiously because of the rain and those driving like assholes despite it.
She tells me about her day at work but I only half listen, instead mostly thinking about how it feels like we're playing some twisted game of chicken to see who will say "I love you" first. I've never wanted to tell anyone something more, but I always approach the subject with caution. Her last relationship was a bad one and lasted way too long. About six years too long. And we're each other's first girlfriend, having only been attracted to guys before this point. And she's said on several occasions that she feels like our friends who are in relationships are moving too fast. It's weird and it's complicated when I think about it, so most of the time I just don't think about it and simply enjoy the fact that I even get to be with her.
"Becky," I interrupt in a break in her story only to realize I'm not sure exactly what I was going to say. I almost say those three words but quickly stop myself.
"Damn," she says, closing the door and throwing the umbrella in the backseat. I notice the bottom of her khakis are soaked. "I wish customers understood that we close at 9, not 9:30."
"I'm sorry, babe." Sometimes I feel like half our relationship is spent apologizing to each other for shit we didn't have a hand in. But it makes her smile, which is all I'm hoping for. It's all I ever hope for. I pull out of the parking lot and head home, the streetlights flickering above us. It seems like there's no time of day in this town you can go out and not encounter traffic, and tonight the drivers are evenly split between those driving too cautiously because of the rain and those driving like assholes despite it.
She tells me about her day at work but I only half listen, instead mostly thinking about how it feels like we're playing some twisted game of chicken to see who will say "I love you" first. I've never wanted to tell anyone something more, but I always approach the subject with caution. Her last relationship was a bad one and lasted way too long. About six years too long. And we're each other's first girlfriend, having only been attracted to guys before this point. And she's said on several occasions that she feels like our friends who are in relationships are moving too fast. It's weird and it's complicated when I think about it, so most of the time I just don't think about it and simply enjoy the fact that I even get to be with her.
"Becky," I interrupt in a break in her story only to realize I'm not sure exactly what I was going to say. I almost say those three words but quickly stop myself.
