Ingrid Michaelson sang from the corner of the room.  The wine cooler kinked as Alex set the half empty bottle back in it’s place.  Baci purred, wrapped in his favorite blanket, eyes shutting slowly in a rhythm of content.  Misha slept peacefully in a tight ball next to me on the velvet of the parsons chair, head covered by her tail, uninterrupted by anything or anyone.  I bit my lip and pierced my eyes, rearranging the tiles yet again, counting points in my head.  Next to my tiles, I could see the sand falling slow and steady through the curves of the hourglass.

 

Recently, this scene has been nothing but a faint memory.  I tell you shamefully that we have found ourselves stuck in the “sitcom reruns and surfing the Internet” rut each night.  Our bodies brushed against each other, feet tangled, shoulders rubbed together, we quietly ignore one another.  There’s the occasional, subconscious “I love you” and the shuffling to the kitchen for a refill.  But, in general, the night passes like a terrible bad habit. 

 

Routines can become a curse.  We blame our horrible routine on year after year of working full time, coming home late from second jobs, taking evening classes and just needing to decompress.   It doesn’t make it any better.  New year, new excuses.  The evil of two overachievers falling in love is that they can forget to leave something for their own romance.  Accidentally, we give each other our leftover selves.

 

I placed dinner in the oven and set the timer.  “Let’s play Scrabble,” he says.  “Perfect.  I’ll set it up on the ottoman."  "No, let’s do it in the dining room.  Otherwise I’ll just get sucked into the TV and the night will disappear."  The honesty.  The unspoken truth.  The elephant in the room.  I agree and we move our weeknight lives to the dining room.

 

So there we are, half drunk on indie music and Tuesday night’s poison-of-choice.  We flirt and we laugh.  We can’t help but talk about Baci and Misha.  We discuss our plans.  We lie to each other, bending the rules, making up words and cursing our tiles.  We look in each others eyes and we see each other.

 

It didn’t happen over dinner downtown, sushi in the dim light of Tsunami or tiramasu in the back corner of Piccola Roma.   It didn’t happen on a vacation, away from the dust and messy piles of our home.  The wine was whatever was forgotten in the fridge months ago and the Fat Tire was leftover from the weekend.  Dinner came from the freezer, topped with barbecue sauce and ketchup.  The music was just Pandora.  It was us, surrendering to our daily lives and giving each other a chance.  And for that, I am thankful that Alex suggested the dining room last night.