The sun is setting and I'm very tired so I want to crawl into my bed. I am slightly bummed that The Irishman won't be there too . . . golly, that was nice. And I'm not even talking about the, er, you know. I'm talking about the part where we were cuddled up under the covers with a cool breeze blowing through the room. I'm talking about his arms around me and my head resting on his chest. I'm talking about waking up to hear, "G'morning . . . how are ya?" followed by a kiss on the forehead. I'm talking about the the utter lack of self-consciousness that is completely out of character for me.

Ooooooh, shiver.

How did I manage to forget how nice all that stuff is? It's a nasty little secret of mine that I never had any of that with J's father. Never had the little gestures, the gentle hugs and kisses, the hand on the small of my back while crossing the street, the laughs, the nice evenings out at restaurants and movies and parties. Our life together was pretty spartan in every way. Not long after I found out I was pregnant, I realized that J's father wasn't going to care about me in these little ways, and that's where our physical relationship ended. J is almost five years old now.

That's a long time, y'all. A long damn time. I guess that's why I forgot. Or couldn't let myself remember.

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