When the weekend finally came, I looked forward to the sweet reprieve of solitude and planned to stay inside with the blinds shut against the oppressive joy of late April. I picked up sushi in clothes unfit for public display, hurried home and turned on Netflix to embark on all 57 episodes of “Portlandia.”
And there it was: my recently watched list, representing the entire history of our relationship.
There was “Mad Men,” which we watched again from the beginning during a snowstorm, my legs across his lap, the cat asleep on my stomach, Peggy Olson still vulnerable and meek.
While making dinner later, I was humming along to a Billie Holiday song at the stove when he came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist and belted the chorus in a low vibrato.
I collapsed into laughter, into him.
“This is everything I want,” he said, suddenly serious.
“Tacos?” I joked, but my throat tightened with a mixture of fear and hope.
There was the Bill Burr comedy special we had barely started when he pulled me onto his lap and began kissing me. He tried to carry me to his bed, but his socks slipped a little on the wood floor, and we laughed, mouths still together, the moment made sweeter. Read more Modern Love at NYT …